


The Olive Groves

by AgentCoop



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 1940s, Angst, Artist Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Living Together, Musician Bucky Barnes, Mutual Pining, Off-Screen Major Character Death, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Recovery, Suicidal Thoughts, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-15 09:11:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11802978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentCoop/pseuds/AgentCoop
Summary: In the summer of 1942, war is on everyone's minds. Jobs are scarce, and boys are shipping out daily, but Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes have each other.Steve wants to fight, and Bucky doesn't. In the end, it won't much matter.Told in four parts, this story encompasses a year in Steve and Bucky's life prior to Bucky's draft notice, his time on the Italian front, his life for the next five years as he tries to pick up the broken pieces of his shattered mental state and put everything back together,and his inevitable return to Brooklyn for Steve.





	1. Intermezzo

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [Buckities](https://archiveofourown.org/users/velleities/pseuds/velleities)  
> for beta-reading and helping me brainstorm!
> 
> Also, thanks so much to Cassandra for the last minute pinch-hit and great artwork for the Tumblr banner and [Dentigerous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dentigerous)  
> for the moral support and beautiful graphic header for Chapter 1!

[](http://uploads.im/TnbAt.png)

_**James** _

**_Spring, 1942_ **

Of course, it was pouring rain.

The train doors closed behind him and the cars moved on down the track leaving Bucky standing alone on the small platform.

He was already cold. He had just spent the last eight hours out hauling iron shipments at the docks. Now, with the rain coming down in streaming torrents, it felt like the chill was taking up permanent residence in his skin.

Bucky sighed and trudged down the rickety stairs, heading back to Steve's apartment. It was nights like these that he liked to give into his own morbidity and reflect on the series of apparent poor life decisions that led him to this moment. He was exhausted. The melancholy seemed acceptable.

Each morning, Bucky rose at the crack of dawn and pulled himself off the couch in their living room. He quietly rinsed his face, brushed his teeth, then tugged on worn pants and jacket, grabbed a piece of fruit from the bowl on the table, and left for work. He generally put in about six or seven hours of hard manual labor down at the docks before he stopped back at the small apartment for a late lunch. Then, if he still had any energy at all, he caught the train into downtown, where he would spend as much time as he could handle walking from shop to shop looking for odd jobs. When he finished, he would ride back home again—usually late in the evening—and get ready to start over in the morning.

When Bucky was young, he dreamed of becoming a concert pianist. His mother had started him on the instrument from an early age, and as soon as his fingers touched upon the keys, they started dancing to the rhythm of his heart.

He still thought about it now, that dream. He'd been accepted to conservatory a couple years back and almost ended up there studying. Bucky was good—he was really, really good. But with Sarah's death, his priorities...

shifted.

Steve was his best friend. He was sick all too frequently, and his mom's death had worn hard on him, but he was still a god-damned stubborn little punk and Bucky'd be pretty lost without him around. He knew what that apartment meant to Steve, knew what it meant to stay there and keep the memories of Sarah alive. So he'd packed up his stuff from his parent's home and moved in and started working to help pay the bills, pay for the doctor calls, pay for medicine and so damn _what_ if he had to put off going to school for a few years. Steve had always been there for him, and would do anything for Bucky. Helping out was the least he could do. Steve was his best friend.

The rain was starting to soak through his jacket. He shrugged uncomfortably and kept walking, fingers twitching unconsciously in his pockets as he ran through a Brahms Intermezzo in his head. He missed being able to sit at an instrument any time of day and just let the music take a hold of him. He did this instead, practiced in silence as he walked, the melody unwinding in his mind. A slow smile began to curl upwards. He thought of Steve waiting up at home, how he always insisted on waitin' up till he made it back, and he thought about plunking the notes of the Intermezzo out on the old upright in their living space. That instrument always sounded like death to Bucky—strings desperately out of tune, ivory keys chipped and cracked—but Steve loved it when he played. Said it made him feel like he 'could breathe', like he 'could exist in the spaces all around'. Bucky had no clue what he meant by that, but when Steve said it, it sounded like music, so Bucky played.

His hair was hanging in sopping clumps as he walked up the steps of the building stoop. He tried the door, but it was still locked, so he fumbled in his pockets for his key and tripped his way into the dimly lit apartment.

“Steve? Shit.”

He swore as he tried to shrug out of his wet jacket—fabric clinging to him fast. “Steve!” He could see into the small kitchen, and see the entirety of the living area. Steve wasn't around, which left only his bedroom. Bucky walked down the short hallway and knocked on the door. “Hey, Steve? I'm back?” In the sudden stillness around him, he could hear distinctly wet, gasping sound.

“Oh...fuck,” he fumbled with numb fingers at the door, heart racing, and got it open. “Steve!”

Steve was sitting hunched up, knees pulled to his chest and back against the bed. His face was an unearthly pale, almost tinged blue, and his eyes were squeezed closed. He was trying to draw a full breath, but with each inhalation, the muscles in his face and arms tensed up as he desperately tried to suck in air.

He couldn't get enough.

“Fuck”, Bucky muttered again as he scrambled across the room to the floor. “Steve? Steve, can you look at me? Can you get up? We need to get you into the bathroom.” He had his hands pressed up against Steve's cheeks, his thumb traced a small tear track. Steve cracked his eyes open and Bucky could see a brief wash of emotion flicker across before the next breath left him gasping again. Steve's own hand came up and squeezed tightly around Bucky's wrist—then Steve gave the briefest of nods.

“Alright. I'm helping you up now, ok?”

Bucky didn't wait for an answer. He scooped his right arm around Steve and pulled him up. They shuffled awkwardly into the bathroom next door, and Bucky unceremoniously deposited Steve onto the hard tile. He turned on the tap and waited for the water to run steaming hot, then sighed and sunk down next to Steve.

“ 's ok. Just relax.” He reached his hand around and rubbed slow circles into Steve's back. “Just breathe.”

Steve was still tense, his eyes still closed, but his left hand moved across the tile floor, seeking. Bucky grabbed it and held on, and Steve started to relax into him. The bathroom was filling with steam, the weight of the heat an oppressive force around them.

“Breathe.”

Steve tilted his head slightly to rest on Bucky's shoulder and they sat in silence, breathing in tandem. After a few minutes, Steve finally spoke.

“Sorry, Buck.”

It was a quiet murmur, but it meant Steve was breathing again. Bucky let out a deep sigh of relief.

“Thank Christ, Rogers. What happened?”

“ Don't know. It came on real sudden. Was doin' some work on that project for the publishers and everything just kind of...seized. Couldn't make it in here for the steam. Couldn't do anything but—”

He shuddered against Bucky and took another deep breath, exhaled slowly. Did it again.

“It's okay.” Bucky took up the slow circles again and tried to concentrate on his own breathing. “Don't worry 'bout it.” His heart was still racing, and his senses were still on high alert, but it was going to be ok. It was always ok.

Thing was, Steve got like this. Had since they were kids. When Bucky was six and Steve was five, they'd be playing on the street and Steve would stop, winded. Bucky would help, and throw his arm around him and tell him ' _it's fine—you just gotta keep goin', Steve_ ' but it wasn't fine, and it would never be fine, so he learned how to make it okay. He learned the doctor’s address, for when Sarah was stuck at work, and he learned that steam helped open the airways, and he learned where the special asthma cigarettes were kept in Steve's apartment, and he learned that Steve couldn't 'just keep goin'.' By the time they were teenagers, it was just part of the routine. Steve could deal with it, most of the time, but Bucky was always there to help. Steve was his best friend.

“I was scared, Buck.”

Bucky jumped a little at Steve's voice as it shocked him out of his reverie. He looked down, but Steve appeared to be staring off at the wall.

“I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe enough to...move.”

Bucky didn't know what to say. He listened, and let the silence swallow the words. He listened, and then he began to hum softly, the melancholy melody of Brahms.

He felt Steve begin to smile.

***

The days always began the same. Bucky would quietly rise, and wash, and eat as he rode the train down to the docks. He would lift, and heave, and sweat. He would return home, and Steve would be gone—at his part-time gig for a publishing company downtown. He would wash again, and eat again, and ride the train again, and then his fingers would seek out the soft ivory. Then he would start to come alive.

On paydays, he and Steve would celebrate. They would carefully count out the exact change for their rent, and stop by the landlord's apartment with money in hand. Then, they would walk down to the local butcher and pick out a prime cut of beef and a bottle of whiskey. Steve would make a stew, Bucky, a fresh loaf of bread, and they would share a meal together with the sunlight pouring into the apartment. They would talk, and laugh, and be together.

It was the best part of each month.

Steve was still sick the next week when Bucky went in to pick up his check. It wasn't unusual for their routine to falter in such a manner, but Bucky was worried all the same. Steve had been in bed most of the last six days, and hadn't been able to make it into work. A kid showed up on their doorstep on day two, and delivered the news. The boy was “mighty sorry about it, but y'know, the times bein' what they are, the firm just can't afford to keep Steve on—on account of him bein' undependable. Sorry sir.”

Bucky wasn't quite sure what to tell Steve. Steve loved to work. More than he loved to draw, more than he loved to cook, he loved the freedom that came from the independence of working. Steve wouldn't be surprised—this was life. He worked real hard, then he got sick and they'd scrimp for weeks 'til he could pick up something new. But Bucky always hated kickin' him when he was down., and this time seemed different.

So he went to pick up his check, and then walked down to the butcher on his own. He skimmed the prices, before settling for a roast—no whiskey. Then he walked back home again, the paper package heavy in his arms and sweat prickling on his neck.

When he entered the apartment, Steve was sitting at the kitchen table. He looked pale and wasted, but he was sitting. Bucky smiled.

“You look like shit.” He set the roast on the table and ruffled his fingers through Steve's blonde hair.

Steve wrinkled his nose. “Good to see you too, jerk.” He sighed, and layed his head down on his hands. “I'm real sorry about this. I'll find another job this week, and hopefully pick up even more hours and that should help make up for the money we lost while—”

“Steve.”

Steve stopped and looked up.

“We'll be fine.” Bucky tried to inject as much positivity into his voice as he was able. “You feelin' up for cuttin' some carrots?”

“Sure thing!” Steve grinned, and stood up slowly from the chair. Bucky watched him carefully—watched the rise and fall of his chest, and how his fingers gripped the back of the chair for support before he pushed off and walked to the counter.

“You sure you're feelin' better?”

“Bucky!” Steve turned, annoyance clear in his tone. “Jeez. I've been in bed for six days now. Y' think you could shut up and stop fussin' about me for two minutes and let me cut up a damn carrot?”

“Okay, okay!” Bucky laughed. “Feel free to cut up all the carrots you want! Just don't come cryin' to me next time you can't breathe.” Bucky followed Steve over to the counter with the roast and started pulling pots out from behind the cabinet doors. They both worked in a comfortable rhythm for a moment, letting the simple sound of knives on cutting boards echo around them. Steve paused for a moment.

“You know, I think I can handle puttin' the stew on. You wanna go practice a little in the living room?”

Bucky rolled his eyes and sat down his knife. No matter how many times he told Steve that piano was crap, Steve still thought for some god forsaken reason he'd come home and desperately want to play. He wiped his hands on the front of his shirt, then headed towards the old instrument.

“What d'you wanna hear?”

Steve closed his eyes for a moment, lost in thought. “That song you were hummin' the other night. What was that?”

“Mmmm. Brahms.” He sat at the bench, and ran his fingers lightly over the keys. Then he closed his eyes and thought of Steve. Thought of blue eyes, and soft blonde hair. Thought of his smile, and his smart ass mouth. Thought about how he wasn't supposed to think about his best friend this way. Thought about Steve's head against his shoulders...

“Buck?”

“I'm comin', I'm comin'.” Thought about Steve's breath in his ear, their fingers intertwined. With a pensive sigh, he began to play.

_**Steve** _

**_Spring, 1942_ **

Steve was still looking for work. He walked the streets every day, back and forth, and popped his head at every shop, store, business he could manage. There hadn't been a lead yet.

On Tuesday morning, he noticed a 'help wanted' sign in the window of the local market. Steve bounded in all cheer and smiles and asked for the manager, who popped his head up from behind an aisle.

“I'm him. What can I help you find?”

Steve walked over, hand outstretched. “Afternoon, sir. My name's Steve. Steve Rogers. I'm here about the 'help wanted' sign you had out in your window?” The man returned his handshake slowly, but Steve noticed him giving the silent once-over—eyes roving up and down Steve's small frame and finding him ...lacking. Steve plowed on. “I'm good help, sir. Always on time, and I'll work late if you need. I'm good with numbers, and typing, and inventory, and—” The man held up one hand.

“I'm gonna cut you off right there, son. I'm real sorry, but we're just lookin' for someone...well, we need someone...” He paused as though he were truly trying his hardest to put a kind note in his words. Steve felt a small bit of gratitude for the gesture, but he knew what the man would say. He'd heard it enough in his life.

“We just need someone to load and unload shipments coming in. I just don't think you'd quite be cut out for it.”

Steve sighed, and kept the smile plastered on his face. “Well, thanks anyways sir. If you hear of anything, or if you need someone to help up front, you just remember my name? Steve. Steve Rogers.”

“Will do, son.”

They shook hands again, then Steve turned and made his way back to the street—bells on the glass door tinkling behind him as it swung shut.

There wasn't anything for it. The country was just now starting to come out of the depression and able-bodied men everywhere were still looking for work. Steve was small, and he was sick, and there were just too many other options when it came right down to it. Wasn't a reflection on him, or his work ethic, or his value as a human being. It's just the way things were.

He trudged down the lane, making faces and trying to relax the muscles of his mouth. Took a lot to smile these days. On his left, he noticed a wide swatch of wall covered in enlistment posters. 1942, and all the boys were headed off to war. Wasn't anything so grand as being able to stand up and fight for freedom, fight for life, fight for your country. He ran his hands through his hair, then stepped up to one.

your Flag...your future

join the U.S. Army

Steve looked down the street towards their apartment, then up at the sky overhead. The sun was just beginning to fall from it's peak in the sky. He estimated a good nine hours or so before Bucky was home for good. He looked back to the poster, stepped up even closer, then read through the fine print.

Nearest enlistment center: corner of Lincoln Ave. and Bedford.

***

The waiting room was small, dirty, and smelled like old sweat and mold. Steve sat on one of many metal folding chairs—uncomfortable and nervous. He chewed the nail of his right thumb and eyed the room, then anxiously crossed his arms over his chest in an effort to look larger. There were about a dozen other men in the room, all waiting to be called back. He closed his eyes for a moment, and envisioned the next scene.

_He walks into the apartment, dressed in his new army service uniform. Bucky’s at the piano, notes cascading up and down, and filling the small apartment with joy. The door shuts, and Bucky's fingers slow to a stop. He slowly turns._

“ _Oh. Steve.”_

_Bucky jumps up from the bench, and crosses the living area, enveloping Steve in a warm hug. Steve can smell him acutely—he can smell the salt of the sea from the morning's work, and the faint spicy notes underneath that, the smell of just plain Bucky. He relaxes into the embrace and rests his head on Bucky's chest, directly below his chin, in that perfect spot that seems to be meant for Steve. He can hear Bucky's heartbeat, and it is strength, and it is warmth, and it is life..._

“ _I'm so proud of you, Steve.”_

“...Rogers? Is there a Steven Grant Rogers here?”

Steve jumped a bit, shaken out of the daydream, and he looked toward the back of the room where a man in a white coat stood holding a clipboard.

“Sorry, yes sir.” He picked up his jacket off the back of the chair and followed the man through the door and into a medical exam room.

“Stand here. Height and weight please.”

Steve stepped up and stood as straight as he could manage. The man eyed him, and raised his eyebrows, then looked down and made a few notes.

“Sit here, please.”

Steve sat on the chair, and looked at the ground, trying not to breathe too loudly, or move, or say anything.

“Any known allergies?” The man was back to his clipboard again.

“Oh. Err...no?”

“Good. Medical history that we should be aware of?”

“Um...” Steve thought a moment. He knew that lying to a U.S. Military officer was most likely grounds for immediate dismissal. He also figured they were fairly strict in their admittance procedures. He sighed, and looked directly at the man. “Scoliosis? Rhuematic Fever. History of asthma attacks,”

the man had stopped writing and was staring at him.

“Uh, I have a heart arrhythmia? Oh, and had scarlett fever as a kid,” Steve stopped. The man had turned to the small desk in the room. He set the clipboard down, made a few more notes, and then stamped the piece of paper, turned around and offered it back to Steve.

“Oh. Um, so where do I go next?”

The doctor just shook his head. “Sorry kid. You'd be ineligible on your asthma alone. You can head home.”

Steve looked down at the paper, looked at the large 4F.

“Oh. I see.”

_Steve pulls away from Bucky first, and looks up into his eyes. “You'd sure as heck better finish that degree by the time I get back.”_

_Bucky grins. “Punk.”_

“ _Jerk.”_

_They stare at each other, the fading sunset illuminating the room in beautiful, golden hues._

“ _I'll miss you, y'know.” Steve is speaking in earnest now, still holding Bucky's gaze. “I love you Buck...”_

The moment dissolved into nothingness. It had to. It would never really exist anyway.

***

Bucky was laying on the couch, arm splayed over his face, when Steve got back to the apartment.

“Hey, Steve.” His voice was soft and muffled.

Steve eased the door closed behind him and walked towards the couch.

“Hi. It's really hard to talk to you when you're like this you know. If you wanna have a conversation then look at me at least.”

Bucky groaned, then slowly struggled up into a slouched seated position and pointedly made eye contact.

“Jeez, Rogers. What's your problem?”

Steve rolled his eyes and settled himself down, head in Bucky's lap, and feet up on the arm of the couch. It was a familiar position for them both—one where Steve could easily look up into Bucky's eyes and almost feel like this was something more.

“Sorry. Long day. What're you doin' home so early?”

“Eh. There was an extra shipment down at the docks that I picked up. Some heavy metal siding for those new Liberty ships they're workin' on. Did a number on my back and I was too sore to keep at it.”

His eyes looked far away as he spoke, and his left hand was slowly carding through Steve's hair. Steve loved it. He knew he shouldn't get lost in moments like these, moments that seemed to be fewer and farther between each week. Sometimes it felt like Steve would give anything for these simple tangible pieces of time. Sometimes it felt like music.

He squirmed up again as Bucky's words finally registered.

“Shoot, I'm sorry Buck! You okay? Is there anything I can do?”

Bucky pulled him back down into his lap and bent his head over Steve's face, close enough that Steve could feel his breath on his nose, on his mouth. He stilled, gazing into gray eyes. Bucky looked tired, worn—but he was grinning, his smile reaching his eyes and causing them to glow.

“I’m fine. I,” he took a deep inhale in and suddenly huffed a warm puff of air towards Steve’s face. It smelled horribly of garlic and tobacco and onions.

Steve flinched away and pulled his head up so fast he knocked into Bucky’s chin.

“Gross! You…” Steve made a gagging sound as Bucky leaned back, chuckling. “You are disgusting, Barnes. Do you ever brush your teeth? Urgh!”

Steve hauled himself up off the couch and stalked over to the opposing rocking chair in the corner, angry and irritated and feeling all of the frustration of the day bubbling up inside of him.

“Jesus Christ, I just..I just want to sit and breathe and not have you be a total asshole.”

Bucky pushed himself up a bit and groaned as he changed positions.

“Sorry? Just wanted to see you smile—you're so darn serious!”

He still had that damned grin stretched from ear to ear. Steve wanted to kick him in the teeth. Steve wanted to hug him and never let go.

“I tried to enlist today.”

The grin faded. Bucky moved again—pushed himself off the couch and slowly walked over to where Steve was sitting. He lowered himself down to the floor. 

“What'dya mean you tried to enlist?”

“Just that. I went down to the army enlistment center off Lincoln and filled out the paperwork and wrote my name, 'Steven Grant Rogers', oh so neat, and even got called back for a nice little physical.” His voice was starting to shake, and that infuriated him more than anything. “Turns out I can't even volunteer to go shoot me some damn Nazis. I can't even volunteer to go _get_ shot.”

“Steve,” Bucky spoke warningly.

“No, damn it. I can't do anything.” He looked at his hands. He looked at the floor. He looked anywhere but at Bucky. “I can't find a job, so I can't pay the bills, and I can't stand up and fight for our country, and for our people, and for you and I know, _I know_ , you think this sounds all nice and melodramatic but you can just sit and hear me out because you're my friend and that's what I need from you.” His voice really was starting to break now. “If I could just fight...” Steve paused and took a shuddering breath. “I would get paid Buck. I could send back money for the rent, and I could still be doing something useful and _right_. I'm just so tired, and I'm angry, and I want to do something. Can you understand that? Do you get what I mean?”

Bucky regarded him in silence for a moment before speaking.

“Steve, the war...it isn't this nice and perfectly patriotic thing. It isn't beautiful and it isn't _right_ , and it sure as shit ain't worth signing up for.”

“That's not the point—”

“No, it’s your turn to listen now,” Bucky cut him off, “because you are _my_ friend..War takes things that are strong and righteous and twists them into something completely and totally unrecognizable. It kills beauty and it twists men. It would destroy you. I don't care how good your intentions are, or how much you want to support this god-damned country, or how much you think you have no value unless you're strapped into combat boots with a gun slung around your neck. Nothing's worth that price Steve. Nothing.”

He stopped for a moment, and grabbed Steve's hands. “It's not worth it Steve. Please.”

Steve looked down at the floor, suddenly completely aware of the sound that his heart was making in his chest. “Buck...”

“I don't wanna go to war Steve. And I sure as shit don't want you goin'. Please.”

He looked back up and Bucky was still watching him—a quiet desperation painted in his eyes. Steve shrugged and stood up.

“It's fine. I'm not gonna go trying again. Just drop it. What do you want for dinner? Not more onions, I hope.” Steve moved towards the kitchen and swallowed, wiping at his eyes.

“Steve, I won't lose you...I can't lose you to that. You gotta listen to me. To them. They're right. You can't fight.”

“I said, what do you want for dinner, Buck.”

Steve called it out over his shoulder. Didn't turn around. Didn't want Bucky to see him cry.

_**James** _

**_Summer 1942_ **

The next few months passed uneventfully. Steve finally got a job. He was bagging groceries now, down at the market—not full time, and not anything great, but he felt useful so he smiled more. It made Bucky happy. He figured Steve was still pulling that 'enlistment' shit. Wasn't completely sure, But some days, Steve would come back home late at night, flushed and sweating, as though he had run blocks. Those nights, he'd duck his head down from Bucky's gaze and push by—in a rush to make dinner, or to bathe, or to paint. Bucky didn't say much about it; Steve knew how he felt—he was just a stubborn little punk. Bucky just hoped that if that was really what was going, then the docs would be smart enough to see right through Steve's inevitable lies. He tried not to worry too much.

***

The spring turned slowly into summer and they kept on going. It was a strange sort of experience for Bucky; the feeling didn't come over him suddenly, but quietly washed up—converging at his being, then retreating, then coming on again stronger. He recognized it as contentment. It was simple, and it was soft, and it filled that summer with it's warm embrace.

Their apartment had a small patio, and they liked to end their evenings by sitting outside, letting the last of the sunlight from the day wash over them. Steve would sit in the corner, knees pulled up to his chest and sketchbook perched precariously in place while he scrunched up his nose and concentrated on easy pen strokes. Bucky claimed the rail—back against the wooden frame and legs dangling freely over the balcony. Steve yelled at him for it, but he loved the breeze, loved the view of the city, loved the small jolt in his stomach—the thrill of risk—as he pulled himself up and settled.

He was watching Steve from his roost on this particular evening, and smiling, casually wiping beads of sweat from the bridge of his nose. Steve was beautiful in these moments. He never realized, he never knew. But he was beautiful, the way the breeze tousled his blond hair, and the way he swept it back with annoyance. The way he smudged ink across his temple, and left it there, unsuspecting. Bucky wanted to reach across the porch and wipe it away. He wanted to jump down, and sit right next to Steve—close enough that their bodies would touch—and he wanted Steve to lean his head into that perfect place on his shoulder. Maybe they'd fall asleep that way. Maybe they'd let the sun set in the distance and the cool night breeze would blow in, whispering across their bodies. He blinked. He wanted to tell Steve it was okay, it was all going to be okay, because they would always have each other and he wasn't sure why that made his chest hurt so much.

“What’re you thinking about?”

Bucky blinked again. Steve was staring at him now, eyebrows raised, that smudge of ink highlighted now and spread—all the way to his forehead. Bucky laughed.

“You've got ink all over yourself again, pal.”

“Aw, damn.”

Steve carefully set down his book and fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief. He wiped at his face a bit, but it just served to smear everything further.

“Any better?”

“Sure. If you're wantin' to paint your face like Chaplin.” Bucky laughed again.

“Glad you just crack yourself up, jerk.”

“It's cute Steve. Don't worry about it.”

Steve wrinkled his nose at that one.

“Cute's for dames, Buck. Quit it.”

Bucky sighed and jumped down from the rail. He walked over and bent down, plucking the kerchief from Steve's hands.

“Just let me.”

He wet it with his tongue, then got to work scrubbing—ink coming off and staining the white fabric a dark color while Steve grimaced underneath him.

“Hey Buck?”

“mmhm?”

“Why didn't you go to school when you got the chance? So you could really play piano?”

Bucky paused, then sank back on his knees and thought for a moment.

“Why're you askin'?”

Steve snatched his handkerchief back and put it back in his pocket. He looked up at Bucky and kind of...squinted. Like he was trying to see past something—trying to look into Bucky and find answer that might satisfy him. Bucky didn't like it. Made him feel uncomfortable. He shrugged.

“Wasn't a good time for it.”

Steve just kept staring at him with those blue eyes and Bucky felt like he had to keep talking.

“I can always go back. Do it later. Right now I got more important things to worry about.” He reached out and patted Steve's knee and inwardly cringed at how incredibly patronizing it felt, even to him. “I mean, we need money right now. Playin' piano ain't gunna pay the bills.”

Steve's eyes had narrowed and he finally spoke again.

“Dammit, Buck you shouldn't give up your dreams just for me.”

“That's not what I'm doing and you know it.”

“It is. You had a chance to go, to get away from here and play. You're talented Buck. Real talented. I don't understand what would make you give that up?”

“I'm not givin' it up Steve. I'm puttin' it on hiatus and once things settle a bit and you're healthy again and we're not worrying constantly about what we are going to eat for the week, then I'll think about it. I like playing. But it's not everything.”

“I'm not going to get healthy.”

Bucky swung his legs back over the balcony and stood there, leaning against the rail.

“Steve, you're a god-damned stubborn idiot. You just gotta catch a break with these shit Brooklyn winters and you'll be fine. You'll see.”

The silence grew again and he gazed off at the sunset for another few minutes listening to Steve’s pen on the paper.

“Hey, Buck?”

“Yes?”

He turned back towards Steve again, and saw a little smile quirk up on his face.

“I think we should get a cat.”

Bucky groaned and walked over to the corner, offering his hand and then pulling Steve up beside him.

“We are not getting a cat. They are evil devil spawn, nasty hair filled, claw ridden creatures of destruction.”

He steered Steve towards the door and they walked back towards the stifling heat of the apartment.

“It’d be cute, you know.”

“No cats.”

He shook his head quickly, and gripped Steve tighter to him for a moment, letting the heat of their bodies coalesce.

***

Bucky got his draft notice the next week. It didn't really come as a huge surprise for him. Folks all over town were shipping out daily and enlistment centers were popping up all over trying to recruit kids left and right. Johnny Sullivan from down the street got his notice a couple of weeks back. His momma was still cooped up inside their flat, refusing to come out and talk to anyone. 

The Johnson twins left a couple days earlier. They were all excited, dressed in their new military fatigues and showing off their marching orders—both of 'em were part of the 23rd infantry division and were shipping out to the Pacific. They may have been pretty thrilled for the chance to take out some Japs, but the way Bucky figured, he'd just as soon not be digging foxholes into a mudpit and eating coconuts for the rest of his short life. 

Even Old Tim Everett from the market, who'd fought in St. Mihiel in the Great War, was getting ready to ship out.

Their neighborhood was quickly emptying of able bodied men, so of course it wasn't a shock when his own notice came. He still wasn't sure what to tell Steve, though. He wasn't sure why he had been so certain it wouldn't come to this. Bucky sighed and checked his watch again. 6:17pm. Steve still wasn't home.

At this point, he was more than certain that Steve was out trying to enlist again.They just didn't talk about it. Steve was working decent hours down at the corner market now, but he still felt completely useless no matter what Bucky said. Steve had always been a stubborn little punk, so it stood to reason that he'd keep trying till he either got through, or got arrested for impersonating an able-bodied man. Steve knew Bucky's feelings on the war, on fighting, on dying. Still wouldn't stop him from being a fool.

Bucky still felt guilty, holding the thin piece of paper in his hands. He shouldn't have waited for the inevitable to happen. It wasn't what Steve would do. It wasn't what Steve would expect from him. It wasn't how he wanted to leave.

He didn't want to leave.

The piano was old, and it was out of tune, but it seemed like tonight was a good night for melody. He folded up the letter and pushed it into the pocket of his work trousers, then sat down at the bench. He gripped the fallboard firmly for a moment and squeezed his eyes closed. There was a new tension forming in the set of his shoulders, in the twist of his neck.

He didn't want to die.

He touched the first notes, let them bloom into a weary existence.

***

Bucky waited a few days before broaching the subject with Steve. He picked a Sunday evening—a beautiful night, where the summer air was just starting to carry that scent of fall through the open window, and a cool breeze was stirring up a few fallen leaves.

He had pulled out some old etudes to look over while he waited for Steve to come back home. Anxiety and dread at delivering the news had been souring his stomach, and he just wanted something simple to take his mind off of the anticipation. His fingers flew over the keys faster and faster, the music of Scriabin filling the small apartment with excessive sound, but it was too hurried—ever so slightly too frantic—and the notes fell apart, crashing down on top of one another, as Steve walked in the front door.

“Hey, Buck.”

Bucky turned around to look at him—watched him shrug out of his jacket and hang it 'just so' on the rack by the door. He watched Steve place his key on the entryway table, and then bend down to untie each shoe, nudging them off his feet and placing them directly underneath. Steve always had a perfect grace to his character. Even watching him accomplish these menial tasks was enough to fill Bucky with a solemn sort of peace. He sighed.

“They catch you yet?”

Steve started, and looked up—running his hand through his hair in a nervous sort of tell.

“Huh?”

“They catch you. At the enlistment center. Trying to get past their docs again.”

Steve crossed his arms in front of his chest self consciously.

“How'd you know?”

Bucky laughed—a painful sort of thing that clattered about noisily.

“I just know you. Knew you wouldn't give up that easily.”

Steve nodded his head, looked at the ground, and moved to speak but then paused, as though searching for the right words. Bucky filled the silence.

“I wish you wouldn't. You know I wish you wouldn't.”

“Bucky, I...”

“I know.”

There was a moment then, when they both looked up at the same time, and the current between them set off an almost audible hum. Bucky stood up and crossed the room, taking Steve into his arms. He bent his head down and inhaled quickly—smelled the faint spiced scent of the cheap shampoo they both used.

“I enlisted today, Steve. Got my papers and everything.”

Steve stiffened, then pushed back—held Bucky at arms length.

“What did you say?”

“You heard me, Steve. I enlisted.”

The lie came easier the second time—filled his mouth with an oily taste that dripped freely down his lips.

“That's a real crummy thing to joke about Buck. I know how you feel about the war.” Steve was studying him now, his eyes flickering between Bucky's as though angry about a child's petty joke, as though hopeful for reprieve from some awful bit of news.

Bucky looked down. He couldn't watch anymore.

“I'm not kidding around. I leave next week.”

He felt Steve's grip tighten on his shoulders, then suddenly release—hands gone. He looked up again and both Steve's hands were clenched at his temples, a look of pure distress etched on his face.

“Bucky, you can't, you can't do this... _please_ tell me you're not doing this”

Bucky shrugged softly.

“Thought you'd be proud of me.”

“I...” Steve's left hand moved to his mouth, as though he were trying to block the flow of words. “I'm always proud of you Buck. I just wish...I just wish I could be there with you.”

Bucky quirked a small, tentative grin, testing out the feeling on tight lips.

“I'll come back Steve. You know I will. Couldn't leave you here on your own too long. Wouldn't want you to get into to much trouble.”

“I'll miss you.”

The syllables dropped like lead onto the hardwood of the floor. Bucky felt his heart break.

“Come on. I'll play piano some more?” _I'll miss you too. I don't want to go._

Steve nodded once, and they moved together toward the bench. Bucky swallowed the unspoken thought and he began to play.

_There is a softness in each moment of his resignation, that spurs the imagination. Watch the artist paint, the author write, the musician bring notes to life. Watch the broad shoulders of the boy at the piano as they rise with each breath, and fall again. The composition of the scene fades to murky browns, and a new moment fights for dominance—a moment that stinks of death. Watch the boy at the piano pick up the rifle._

 


	2. Exit Music

_**James** _

**_Fall, 1943_ **

No one ever told him that the war would smell so sweet.

His unit had been stationed at the base of the summit with men from six other companies. They had orders to advance forward and take the mountain with the help, but they had been cut off from behind by a sudden airstrike and raid by the damned Nazi scum. They'd been alone and without support for three days now and the only way out was to keep moving forward—towards the small town also infested by Kraut bastards. It was miserable. Every night fell with an inky, matte darkness that was suffocating and blinding, and every day, more men died. Mines littered the landscape, and snipers littered the higher ground, picking off the American men one by one.

It was miserable, and it was terrifying and it was exhausting.

He figured the sweet smell was the smell death—of gangrene and rotting flesh, sloughing off the corpses of the dead they left behind. He figured that maybe, before the war, the landscape still smelled sweet. Like olives, ripening in the sun and bursting open on the tongue. Like the musky smell of chestnut flowers blooming.

There were no more olive groves. The air raids and landmines and foot traffic of young men afraid to die made sure of it.

He was crouched in his foxhole now, eyes scanning the distance in quick patterns as he counted silently to himself.

One.

Two.

Three.

Each time up to sixty, then he would start again. It was the only way he could manage to keep the demons away from his own flesh—to keep the insanity at bay.

It was too dark to see anything. No stars in the sky. Only black. The others were also folded into foxholes all around him. The others were scanning the darkness, keeping watch for the enemy, guns at the ready. The others were probably all dead by now.

Thirty-three.

Thirty-four.

Thirty-eight.

He flinched, then started over. Sometimes, he wanted to curl inward on himself and plead with God and cry and not move ever again because if he moved then a monster would slither out of the darkness and if he moved he would die. Sometimes, he wanted to jump out of his pit in the ground and go running straight out—draw their fire, take out as many as he could and scream the entire time. Sometimes he wanted to die.

It was raining. He could feel the prickling drops hitting his scalp and trickling down the back of his neck to soak into his water-logged uniform. He wasn't wearing his helmet. He figured that the odds of him dying by shrapnel to the brain were pretty decent, but the odds of him going insane from the constant pelting of water droplets on the steel shell might well be higher. He carefully raised his left hand and wiped at his eyes, never taking his right hand from his weapon. He carefully placed his left hand back and kept scanning the dark.

Forty-six.

Forty-seven.

Forty-eight.

He'd lost weight. On a good day, a day where they weren't being shot at, and that it wasn't raining, and that he hadn't had to hold a man's guts in with his bare hands while dragging them both to the relative cover of a hastily dug trench, it made him laugh a bit. He was starting to look as sick as Steve. He figured, at this point, he oughta just thank Steve next chance he got to write another letter. All those breathing exercises were helping him quell the rising panic that had taken up permanent residence in his chest.

He thought he could almost see the tip of his gun in front of his nose. The dawn was coming.

Sixty.

One.

Two.

Three.

_Dear Buck,_

_I haven't gotten anything back from you yet, but Maeve Sullivan says it takes a while and I should just keep writing you in case. I'm still working down at the market—haven't been let go yet, even though there's a good ten or so folks just waiting for me to keel over from another attack one of these days so they can snatch it up. Stuff's getting better around here though. There's more jobs now, more people helping out with the war effort. I heard last week that the old printing house I used to work at might be looking for more part time help so I might stop by there again._

_I miss you. Things aren't really the same without you around you know. I know I said that already in the last few letters I wrote. Sorry. I really miss hearing you play piano. The apartment is so quiet now, it feels strange and surreal._

_I stopped trying to enlist. I got caught the last time forging my information. Don't worry, nothing bad happened. They just escorted me out and then kind of put out the word that I was going about town pulling nonsense. I just wish I could be there with you. I wish you'd come home soon._

_Oh, Anne Miller popped in to the store a few times and says hello. She asked if it would be alright if she wrote you and I told her that'd be just fine. Hope that's alright._

_I still miss you, jerk._

_Your Friend,_

_Steve_

“You readin' a letter from your sweetheart again, Barnes?

Bucky grinned, and folded the page back up along the familiar crease lines, then tucked it into the front breast pocket of his uniform.

“Fuck off, Wilson. Maybe if you had someone at home who didn't puke at the sight of your ugly mug, you'd have some reading material for company as well.”

The men sitting around the small, makeshift campground all laughed, and Jones gave a low whistle.

“Sounds like fightin' words to me boys. You gonna let Barnes infringe on your honor like that?”

“Barnes can suck my dick.”

“Couldn't pay me enough, Wilson.” Bucky chuckled and his grin almost reached his eyes. Almost. He picked up his rucksack and dug around until his fingers closed upon the last of his meat broth packets. They were on day three now of emergency rations, and if they weren't able to press forward into the town, or if the supply trucks couldn't get through the enemy at their backs, then he really didn't want to think about what they were going to have to do. Already, the hunger was eating away at him—rearing it's ugly head alongside the panic, fear, and exhaustion that already lived inside. The other soldiers around him smiled, and shook their heads, but he could see trepidation in their eyes as well. They were all hungry, cold, wet, and caked in mud, and unless they wanted to broadcast their current position to the all-too-close enemy, then lighting a fire was completely out of the question.

He ripped open the packet and poured the contents into his canteen—swished it around and sipped at it—then sat down with his back to a small tree, with the some of the men from his unit.

“So. What's our plan?”

“Fuck, Barnes,” Jones groaned. “Can't I just sit here and enjoy me some fucking loud ass cicada noise, and savor my,” he paused for a moment to look at the wrapper sitting next to him, “vitamin enriched chocolate, that I've been saving for this most perfect of all occasions?”

Bucky snorted and gave him the good old rigid digit salute. “So. What's our plan?”

Jones rolled his eyes, then looked over at Wilson, who shrugged and whistled a long tone. Another man farther up the bank of the trench popped down, binoculars in hand. Bucky saluted, along with the rest of the company, as their commander sank down on his haunches beside them all.

“Alright mud-eaters. Near as what I can tell, we have about another thousand yards to cover over that next hill and we'll be in the town. We need to go at night, and we need to go fast. The 143rd is still trying to get reinforcements through and we are just going have to hope and pray we can clear the way fast enough for them to push in. If we end up in that town with no one else, we're fucked and can all but guarantee our transport out of here via body bag. If we wait around, we're gonna get taken out by another air raid.”

“But...the mines.”

Bucky looked over at the young man who spoke—Private Hartley. He was just a kid, really. Looked terrified; horror and death had etched their deep grooves into the lines of his face. Bucky sighed, and their commander spoke again.

“Yeah. There're mines all around us. There've been mines all around. You wanna keep sitting here and wait for the shit eating Jerry's, be my guest.”

“Sorry, sir.”

Kid looked down again and Bucky wondered how he'd made it this far. How he was still alive when good men were dead, and dying, and brave, and willing to just shut the fuck up and do the god damned job. Then he thought about Steve, and remembered how they used to be young and figured he almost remembered what that felt like.

“So. Way I figure, we need to move tonight. At oh one hundred hours. May as well eat the last of your rations now boys. We'll either get fed tomorrow once we make it to town, or we'll all be too dead to care.”

Commander Dugan took a long swig out of his canteen, then saluted again before turning and climbing back over the wall of the trench—back to keeping watch. Bucky looked around. The men had fallen mostly silent. There was a new sort of tension in the air, a palpable elasticity around them. Hartley had his eyes squinted almost closed and his mouth was moving—looked like he was reciting some sort of prayer. Bucky used to believe in God.

God didn't watch over murderers.

He felt fidgety, and stiff. His heart was beating a little too loudly in his chest. They had about five hours to wait before they were going to move, and like every other planned attack, he felt anxious and panicky, and sick. He hated the waiting part. They all hated the waiting part.

He looked across the group and saw Jones chewing. He was still holding the empty chocolate wrapper in his hand, but the pleasure seemed to have gone out of the experience. Bucky found himself using the silence to study each man. They weren't friends. He stopped trying to make friends in the first month of the war. He stopped trying to make friends when he watched one step on a landmine and lose his leg—watched him bleed out on the field. Bucky watched, and did nothing but keep killing Nazis.

He studied these men.

Wilson had a wife, owned a business, took care of his father.

Jones had a young wife at home, a baby on the way.

Lewis had a girl waiting for him.

Anders had a wife, three kids, a dog, a house.

Johnson had a wife.

Bucky had Steve.

Bucky didn't want to die.

***

In the course of five hours, the rain fell even harder and the temperature dropped drastically. He knew Commander Dugan had meant well, telling them all to eat—but Bucky cursed him out under his breath as he violently threw it all back up. He was too nervous, the acid in his stomach was burning in his gut. He wiped his mouth on the back of his shirt and clutched at his gun and tried desperately not to think about the men he was about to kill. About the men he already killed. About the girls he widowed. About the children he orphaned.

Bucky wondered if there were tally marks etched on the inside of his skull. He wondered if someone opened his head at the crest—peeled away the thin skin and hair and cracked the bone—would find they find a number count. He wasn’t sure he could remember all of them anymore. There should be a count somewhere.

The company started out. They inched forward; eighty men total left out of the original two hundred and fifty. He was on his belly in the mud, and he crawled forward, inch by precious inch. He could hear rain, and he could hear bombs, and he could hear gunfire, and he could hear screams

His pants were soaked through. Could have been piss. Could have been mud. Could have been blood. This might be hell already. Maybe he already died.

Maybe he bled out on a field, pressing his hand into his throat and trying to put pressure on the blood pumping from his arteries and covering his chest. Maybe he gasped into the air, and tried to move, and gasped some more. Maybe he prayed, and God laughed, and put him right back here, in endless loop.

_Boys smile at their mothers, and their mothers cry._

_boys march on quivering toes and stand tall and_

_salute_

_'We are Men'_

_they shout_

_men with guns_

_and they die men,_

_but their mothers mourn them as_

_boys._

The rain beat down and the man next to him cried out, then went silent. Bucky didn't stop. He didn't know how he could differentiate this silence in the ongoing thunder of war, but he could feel it—death—it was heavy, and it was silent, and it was here.

He moved another inch.

His mouth was moving. He had to focus to understand, to feel the weight of the word on his lips, but he suddenly realized that he was murmuring 'Steve'. There were tears on his face, and his hands were numb, pressed into the mud, but he still murmured Steve on repeat.

Maybe Hartley wasn't praying earlier. Maybe the name of his heart was just spilling over.

Steve.

He was tired and cold and so scared. He wanted to go home.

He moved another inch.

The mud was suffocating. He tried to keep as low to the ground as possible, but he was covered in the stuff and the surface was flooding all around him. There was a river of water, pouring down the mountainside, and the earth he was crawling in was dissolving underneath, sucking him lower and lower, making it harder and more impossible to move. He was breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth and trying not to stop—not to let the earth swallow him whole. He was trying not to let the panic take over. His nerves were frayed, they were hot to touch, like thousands of live wires threatening to stop his heart with every moment.

He moved another inch.

There was a man in front of him and he was covered in mud. Bucky aimed. Fired. Reloaded.

There was a man in front of him and he was covered in mud. Bucky aimed. Fired. Reloaded.

There was a man.

He aimed.

Mud.

Fired.

Man.

Reloaded.

There was a man in front of him and he was covered in mud. Bucky aimed. Fired. Reloaded.

There was water in his nose, and water in his eyes, and water in his mouth. There was blood in the mud. He scanned the darkness and listened to the screaming, the artillery, the mines, the noise, the anger, the death.

He moved another inch.

A dozen yards away a blinding explosion lit up the sky. They ground shook, and chunks of earth dislodged themselves and rained down around him. There must have been a sound, a boom, a crash. He didn't know if he heard it or not. He didn't know if this was real anymore. In the sudden light of the mine explosion, he could see bodies littering the fields around him. Then the darkness returned, cloaking them all in ink, hiding their sins from God.

He moved another inch.

They used to visit the botanic garden in the winter. Steve would take his paints and sit cross legged on the dirt, studying, chewing his lower lip, brushing the paint slowly across paper. He had a favorite—a bonsai called 'Corralina'. She had beautiful flowers. Red flowers. Steve would agonize over her for days and weeks. He wanted the reds to be perfect. The petals to reflect the hues of summer, and of spring, and of heat, and of love. 

Bucky wondered how to tell Steve that the expensive paints they saved up for that summer didn't come close to the true, scathing nature of the color red.

He moved another inch.

He wondered if Steve was painting differently now. If the colors would drain of import in Brooklyn because they were called upon to be so saturated, here on the other side of the world.

He shot another man.

Blood mixed with mud is a turbid thing.

He moved another inch.

When the daylight returned, they took the town.

***

The village was crumbling and dusty, but it smelled like life. When Bucky's unit finally reached the town, they found that the support troops had broken through the German line and were already helping the villagers out of their hiding places. Bucky's unit had been quickly stripped down and ushered into makeshift medical tents, but he escaped the nurse's' ministrations with a few bandages and orders to find rations.

He ate enough to soothe the gnawing hunger that was his constant companion, then moved on to pick his way through the rubble. The 107th had been given a month's leave for their heroics under fire. Now the men were just waiting for transport back to base. Bucky wished they were under orders to continue on with the reinforcements. Stopping now meant listening to the silence all around him—and that silence was louder than gunfire.

He spent the first days of waiting for transport picking his way through rubble and surveying the countryside. The women and children and older men were slowly coming down from their rabbit holes in the cave systems and trudging back towards what remained of their homes. Children played in the streets—running and calling after one another. It was a small return to normalcy he figured, a return to youth.

He felt shuddery on the inside—a nervous tendril of unease gripped his being and held him in it's thrall. Even the sounds of the village returning to daily life caused sweat to prickle at the back of his neck. He felt like he was being watched.

Sometimes he dreamed of Chopin, but the melody was riddled with bullet holes.

He took to walking without a purpose, dreadfully alone. Today, he walked further north of the village—up over the small rise and towards the river. There was a field out to his left—he walked that direction. It was blackened and charred, but there were still trees standing—leafless and lifeless—reaching toward the heavens with a gnarled and scorched grip. An olive grove. Bucky reached up and snapped of a bit of branch from the nearest tree. The brittle wood crumbled in his grasp, leaving his palm full of soot. He imagined the charcoal staining Steve's face. He dropped the stick and brushed his hands against his dirty pants, then walked closer and ran his fingernail down the bole, scraping a layer of blackened bark off. Underneath the char, a new tissue was growing. It was a creamy white and it felt soft to touch.

“Mi scusi signore?”

He snapped his hand back and turned, surprised at the mild voice behind him. She was an older woman—dirt covered her hands and face, and she had a yellow kerchief tied about her head. He ran his hand over his face quickly, trying to wipe the sweat from his eyes, the dirt from his mouth, the blood from his skin.

“I...”

His voice was gravelly from disuse. He tried again.

“Sorry. Ma'am. It's beautiful, out here?” His words had a stumbling metric quality to them, as though he were reciting something long stored in the recesses of his mind.

She tilted her head; looked at him quizzically.

“Oh. Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “Scusa?” The language was foreign on his tongue. “Albero?” He motioned towards the grove. “Um. Bella?”

Her eyes brightened and she nodded slowly, walked toward him. Bucky fought down his sudden desire to run.

“Americana, sì? Questi ulivi sono stati piantati dal mio bisnonno. La mia famiglia ha avuto la tendenza a loro per generazioni.” She reached her hand out and ran her callused fingers down the new bark Bucky had unearthed. “Torneranno. Vedrai. Hanno sempre tornare.” She looked back at Bucky again and smiled—it made her face more youthful. He studied the lines scored into her tanned skin and realized she wasn't actually all that old; just worn.

“I'm sorry. I don't understand?”

She just kept smiling, then sighed and took her hand from the tree.

“Vieni con me.”

She turned and started walking away. He watched her figure, illuminated by the glow of the evening sun—watched her turn and look over her shoulder. She called out again and reached out her hand.

“Vieni con me.” She seemed to be waiting for a response, and he had no idea what to say. The language was beautiful, musical. It unearthed something deep within him that he had no name for---some melancholy, longing emotion. His fingers wanted to touch ivory again.

“Come...with you?” He moved his right palm to his chest, then pointed at her, unsure of how to cross the language barrier, unsure of why it seemed so important.

She nodded, the palm of her hand outstretched towards him still, so he moved forward and took it carefully, feeling the weight of her weathered skin.

“Vieni con me,” she stated again. Slow. Satisfied.

She pulled at him, and he followed her, through the charred trees and further into the grove.

The home at the edge of the trees was small, and rustic, and unlike anything Bucky had ever seen in New York. It was foreign, like everything else in this place, but as they approached he could faintly hear the tinkling of a piano—chords being struck, and discordant harmonies ringing out.

It was the most beautiful sound he had heard since crossing the ocean.

He was suddenly very aware of his appearance. The woman was still pulling him forward—up to the mantle of the door and over the threshold, into the stone foyer of the house. He had managed to wash the worst of the grime off himself the first morning after that horrible night, but he was still dust covered, and bathed in sweat from the constant humidity of the climate. He could have refused her. He could have lowered his eyes, ducked his head, murmured something in English, then walked away. Something about this encounter was calling to him though—there was something he acutely needed from this simple human contact, human touch.

He moved in with the woman, through the front entryway and into the sitting room, and saw it.

A little girl sat on the old bench, hammering away—old and tattered sheet music splayed out haphazardly on the rack. It was an upright. Nothing special. It was worn and tired—stain worn thin in most places so you could see through to the bare wood underneath. The ivory keys were chipped, and outright broken in a few places. Every now and again, the girl would hit a note that didn't sound at all—the string must be snapped, or no longer in place. She had a look of concentration written on her young features. Her brow was furrowed, and her lips were smashed together as her fingers moved over the board—carelessly hitting notes that were not on the page.

He realized he was holding his breath, and let it out suddenly—a warm whoosh of air barely audible, but the girl stopped playing and looked up.

“Ciao mamma!” She met Bucky's eyes. “Ciao!”

“Ciao,” he responded, trying to smile. It felt strange on his face, after so long. The muscles didn't want to quite move the right way.

The woman moved forward and put her hands over her daughter's shoulders, then proceeded to talk to her excitedly. They both looked up at Bucky from time to time as he stood awkwardly in the doorway.

“So. Um.”

They both ceased their chatter and looked up at him.

“I'm James? I mean, you can call me Bucky.” He cleared his throat and started over. “Um. Sono Bucky.” He motioned to himself again as he spoke, uncomfortable with the way the vowels of the language fit in his mouth.

“Ciao Bucky! Sono Emilia. Emmie!” The young girl elongated his name as she spoke, letting her voice linger on the first syllable just slightly. It was foreign and strange, and in this moment felt right.

The woman walked back over to where he stood.

“Sto facendo la cena. Vi prego di restare. Mangia con noi. Pane e formaggio e frutta, sì? Semplice.” She nodded excitedly, and mimed eating with her fingers. Bucky gathered he was about to be fed. He nodded along.

“Yes. Si. Can I...” he paused, looked back towards the girl as though she might suddenly help him speak the language. “Help? A...to? Aito?” He was trying to remember every bit of Italian he had ever heard. Most was in bars, or on the battlefield. None of it was helpful.

She just shook her head. “No. No. Emilia?”

She suddenly grasped his hand and held it again, for a moment, looked into his eyes. She smiled, but there was sadness there—war, and hunger, and violence had not escaped this home. She dropped it, then turned and walked back, deeper into the house.

“Sir?”

He turned, and saw Emilia still watching him.

“I'm so sorry. I don't speak...no...parlare? Italiano?”

She giggled. “Yes. You are. Not so good. Not so much good as I. At English.”

He gaped for a second. “You can speak? English?”

She nodded, and scooted over on the bench. Patted her hand next to her side. His heart caught in his throat.

“I speak. Little. Un poco. You are not the first American to be here I think, yes?”

He felt heat come to his cheeks. Of course he wasn't the first in this area. The war had been ravaging this countryside for months now.

“Your mother speaks?”

“Oh no!” Emilia laughed, and pressed her hand to her mouth as though he had uttered the silliest thing imaginable. “She is...not so smart as I am. You see? Now sit.” She promptly turned her back to him again, and started plunking out notes at a rapid pace.

Bucky thought for a moment. He figured, even with the influx of American soldiers around, her mother was old enough to have trouble picking up on a new language—shouldn't have to pick up on a new language. He carded his fingers through his hair, then brushed his palms against his pants, trying to remove the worst of the dirt. It was pointless. His pants were just as covered.

He slowly lowered himself onto the bench next to Emilia and leaned forward, studying the sheet music.

“Oh! You are trying to play Bach!”

She stopped suddenly and huffed at him, exasperated.

“Of course. Bach is. Difficult. You must understand...fraseggio? I am sorry. I do not know the English.” She moved her hands in smooth lines, up and down, as though they were carving a path over hills. “Frassegio.”

“Oh! Phrasing?”

She nodded eagerly. “Si! Yes! And contrappunto, yes? All difficult.”

Bucky closed his eyes and swallowed. “Yes. You are right. Very difficult.” He gripped the bench, knuckles white. “May I?”

He felt her move off the bench next to him, and he settled in, eyes still closed, heart rate rapid. He took a few deep breaths, settled himself, then placed his fingers on the keys and began to play.

His breathing settled, and a warmth grew, from deep inside his chest. He felt the grime and dust and blood and sin begin to dissolve from underneath his fingernails, underneath his skin. It was freeing, and it was life, and his fingers danced up and down the keyboard. There were notes missing, and strings out of tune, but it didn't matter, because his heart was full and the heaviness that weighed down on his chest had moved. The simple music of Bach wound it's way around the small living room, and grew tight, and constricted, it was getting hard to breathe again, then it burst its way out of the windows and into the olive groves. The music painted the fields with greens and browns and oranges and even some reds, true reds, but these reds held beauty. It erupted through the air in joyous counterpoint, contrappunto, and it wove ribbons of light throughout the dusky sky.

Just as suddenly as it came, it withdrew—colors faded once more, and the world returned to dusty greys. Bucky breathed in, and the absence of Steve suddenly felt even more like a knife in his chest; painful, and raw, and visceral.

“Oh.”

He turned, and saw Emilia's mother, standing once again in the doorframe. There were tears in her eyes, and she wiped them away with the back of her hand, then turned and walked away.

“You should tell me that you play, yes?” Emilia walked back to him and sat down again. “It was beautiful.”

“I'm sorry,” Bucky spoke. “I didn't mean to...I...did I upset your mother?”

“No. Well. Maybe. You remind her of my brother. He was tall.” She reached up and touched his cheek and her skin was soft—untainted. “Brown hair. Dark brown eyes. He died.”

Bucky looked down. “I'm so sorry.”

Emilia looked wistful for a moment. “It's no matter.”

“Yes. It is. I should apologize?”

“No. She will just want. A time?”

“Moment. Yes.”

She took her hand away from his cheek but continued to watch his eyes.

“He played piano too.”

***

They ate dinner together, on a long wooden table that looked handmade. The older woman set out freshly made bread, and goats cheese and milk, along with preserved olives from their pantry, and fresh berries. Bucky had no idea where she had found the berries. He didn't try to ask. They were perfection on his tongue—bursting under his teeth, tart and sweet with the flavor of summer and childhood. A memory fluttered to the surface and he suddenly recalled kissing Rebecca Abbott behind the corner store, just two summers ago now. They were both fresh faced, and full of the passion of youth. His mouth chased hers and when their lips caught, she tasted like strawberries.

The three ate mostly in silence, and when they finished—Bucky moved to help clear the dishes.

“ah ah,” the woman tsked at him, “partire. Vai con Emilia.” She smiled at him again, kind and graceful. “Partire.” She nodded her head at him, and Bucky suddenly moved to take her hand in his once more.

“Gratzie. I'm...” he looked over his shoulder at Emilia, but she wasn't watching. “Scusa. Just...grazie.”

She took both her hands and pulled his head down to her level—kissed him gently on the forhead, then spoke quietly, words for only him. “Stai attento. Ragazzo come te - torna a colui che ti ama. Stai attento.”

He nodded, closed his eyes and let the touch of her mouth fade from his skin, then turned back to Emilia.

“Walk, outside?”

“Of course.”

He left the house with Emilia by his side in silence—picked their way through the burned remnants of the groves before speaking again.

“Are you both going to be alright? Food? Your house?”

Emilia stopped for a moment to look up at him, then reached out and grabbed his hand. Hers was so small in his grasp—so delicate. They continued to walk.

“We are being fine. When soldiers came, we went to caves. My brother and my father? They both are taken? They fight. But mother and me are safe. We are being safe.” She smiled again, cheerful, but her eyes still held sorrow. “We are having each other now and that is still okay.”

Bucky squeezed her hand tightly. She was so young—had seen so much—and was still so full of hope and happiness for the world around her. He could learn from her. He should try to learn from her.

“And now you Americans all come. So we come out of the caves. And I am playing piano again! So, you see, it is joyful now. Bach makes the life have meaning again, yes?”

He turned to look at her—bent down on one knee so they were eye level and spoke, somberly.

“Thanks Emilia. I can't thank you enough. For the meal, for letting me listen to your music, for letting me into a moment of your world.”

“Silly.” She bounded away, suddenly laughing and he stood, feeling a bit ridiculous.

“Silly American!” She yelled, over her shoulder, and he watched her run, towards the bank of the river, where there were other children playing in the mud.

***

Back at base camp, the other men from his unit were standing around the mess tent. Dugan saw Bucky walk up first and raised his hands in mock surprise.

“Look fellas, he returneth!”

Bucky just tilted his head in greeting, moved to push past them all, but Dugan reached out a hand and held him back.

“Hey. Barnes. You okay man?”

Bucky nodded, looking up at the larger man and grinned, feigning nonchalance.

“Fine. Just gonna hit the sack. Call it a night.”

Dugan held him there for a moment—studied his eyes. The other men ignored them both—continued their chatter—and Bucky stood under the steady gaze feeling uncomfortable.

“It's ok. You know? It's ok to feel awful. It's ok to not be alright.”

Bucky tried to flinch out of the grip, and move.

“Yeah boss, it's a-okay.”

“You did good out there kid. I'm promotin' you to Sergeant for your work gettin' us through enemy lines. You're also gonna start training in special ops. We need a new sniper. Lost too many of 'em.”

Bucky was frozen—the conversation around him slowed and melted into a congealed sludge. Sergeant was good. Steve'd be proud. Sergeant was good.

_There was a man in front of him and he was covered in mud. Bucky aimed. Fired. Reloaded._

_Blood mixed with mud..._

“Barnes? You hear me?”

He snapped out of it—forced his muscles into a shaky caricature of a smile.

“You got it boss.”

He saluted, and Dugan released his shoulder.

“Good. Well. Go catch some sleep. Transports should be showin' up sometime this week. Oh, and post finally made it through. You should have some mail waitin' for you.” Dugan smiled real big. “Seems like you got quite a sweetheart back at home. You gotta pile'a letters bigger'n anyone else.”

***

_Dear Buck,_

_Weather out here has been pretty crummy. Rain comes down in sheets most days. Feels like spring in New York I guess. Look at me, wasting paper talking about the weather. Bet it's nice out there huh? Not sure where in Europe you actual are at this point, but I figure it can't be as bad as the Pacific right?_

_Oh. Speaking of the Pacific. Mary Johnson got word last week that Tim died in combat. Guess it's just Henry fighting out there now. She's pretty upset about it, but she's carrying on real good. Pops into the market every other day and always smiles and says hello. I feel real bad._

_I hope you're staying safe. I know there's nothing I can do, and it just kills me, it really does. You best get back here soon Bucky Barnes. I can't keep picking fights with all the town bullies without my trusty sidekick (don't roll your eyes. You know you're not the superhero of this story.)_

_Miss you._

_Your Friend,_

_Steve._

Bucky sighed and carefully folded the letter—put it in his front breast pocket with the other. Then he opened the next.

_Dear Buck,_

_I finally got a response from you! I'm sure you sent it months ago. But it finally arrived today and I was so excited. Maeve popped into the store again and she could just tell. She says hello by the way._

_Are you really stationed in Italy now? What's it like there? Do you remember going to the theater to see A Farewell to Arms? I am picturing it just like that—you as Gary Cooper, seducing all the women of the Italian countryside._

_It's really lonely here. I've picked up even more shifts at the market now. Teddy O'Connor the stockboy, shipped out this week, and there aren't too many young men left in these parts. Not to be overly dramatic or anything but for the first time I'm finally paying the entire rent on my own, so maybe all you men ought to just stay over there and not come back._

_I can't believe I just wrote that. It was a joke. Come back. Please be safe. I miss you, Buck. Nothing's really been the same since you left._

_Your Friend,_

_Steve_

Bucky let out a slow breath, then chuckled to himself as he folded up the second letter. What a punk. He read through the next five letters, all from Steve. All contained menial, detailed information about Steve's life in Brooklyn. All ended the same. I miss you. Be safe. Come Home.

They were everything he wanted.

There wasn't enough room in his breast pocket for more than two, so he put the rest into the side pocket on his pants—he wanted them close. Steve was right. Bucky was always the sidekick and Steve was the hero. Bucky didn't want to be here. Steve did. Bucky shot at men who couldn't see him, killed men who couldn't see him, killed women, killed children. He didn't deserve to go home. But he...

He pulled out paper and a pen from the rucksack by his cot and began to write.

_Dear Steve,_

_I played a piano today..._

_***_

The days passed slowly. The men not stationed in the village spent their time playing cards, lounging about the mess hall, sleeping, and drinking. Liquor was in high supply. Once the women, children, and older men came down from their hiding places in the caves, they immediately set about to cleaning up the wreckage and opening up shop because soldiers, more than anything, like to drink.

Bucky liked to avoid the other men. Instead, he would rise early, then wander up and down the coast. He never ventured back to the burned olive groves, but he saw Emilia every so often, playing with other children. He would smile, wave, occasionally say hello, but mostly he just walked.

He thought about going home. He thought about seeing Steve, and hugging him with all his strength. He thought about sitting down at the bench and playing Mozart and Bach and Chopin and everything forever until Steve was so sick of the tinny notes of that old and ramshackle instrument that he started working out daily with the only purpose of building up enough muscle to haul the thing clear over to the balcony and push it over the side.

The thought made Bucky smile.

He thought about Steve drawing, pushing the charcoal with precise strokes until the medium was barely a nub in his fingers. He thought about the black dust getting all over everything. He couldn't wait to buy Steve new paints, new paper, new supplies. He was sending home all of his army pay, but Steve was saving it all now—now that he was able to pay the rent on his own. They would have money for the first time in a long while—extra money to spend on each other. Extra money to go out, have a nice meal, take out a nice dame like his ma always wanted,

have money to pay for Steve's medicine.

He wasn't sure what he would say when he made it back. He hoped Steve would fill in the silences for him.

He wasn't sure how to describe the heavy vice that lived inside of him now and pressed against his heart and lungs. He figured Steve would understand without saying anything. Steve was like that.

The air was getting cooler now—the warm days of fall dissolving suddenly into winter.

On the day the transports arrived, snow began to fall.

There was something magical about the sound of snow. Bucky remembered learning a word in school: _petrichor._ He can't remember why the teacher taught it, or what business it had being on a fifth grade spelling exam, but he remembered the meaning—it stuck with him.

He thought about petrichor now, as the snow began to fall. Thought about why there was a specific word for the smell of rain, but a vast nothingness for the sound of snow. It would be something Steve would come up with and be able to paint—the sound of heavy weight and quiet static. The sound of a moment coming to an end. The sound of a pause.

He looked toward the ocean and saw Emilia—stopped and watched for a moment. Though she was far in the distance, he could still see a grin on her face, and he could still hear the tinkling sounds of her laughter carried on the wind.

She stopped suddenly, high on a sand dune. There were other children running below her, engaged in a game of tag. Emilia turned and saw Bucky—waved, and her smile grew. She was beautiful in her youth. Her skirts blew in the wind, and her curls sprung free of their tightly woven braids.

The heavy flakes coated his eyelashes.

He could hear threads of distant Bach on the air.

She turned back and ran towards the children, and the world exploded in sound and shrapnel.

***

A group of commissioned officers set up at the camp the next morning and held a ceremony for the men of the 107th. Bucky was given a medal and promoted to Sergeant. He shook hands and saluted while men around him cheered. He tried to smile, but found that he had forgotten how those muscles worked.

 


	3. Ghost Towns

_**Steve** _

**_Spring, 1945_ **

It was a rainy Tuesday afternoon when Steve heard the news.

Truman had made some grand announcement over the television that morning, but Steve was at work restocking canned goods and detergent and cigarettes. He was busy, he didn't know, and the store was empty. He was in the back storeroom for the better part of the morning, trying to catch up. Sally Yates was working out front.

They didn't even have a radio at the store. She always told him they should have a radio in the store. For emergencies. For news. For distraction.

It took Sally Yates poking her brunette curls 'round the corner of the office to finally divert him from the menial task work.

“It's over, Steve!”

He wasn't sure. He couldn't be sure that she meant it, that she really knew anything; that over meant done.

“Steve?”

He worked at his mouth a bit, felt a shiver of heat run down his back and prickle at the base of his spine.

“It's...over?”

She laughed—a sound that pealed like bells across the small office. Her smile reached her eyes. They glowed.

“It's over! Truman announced it this morning! Lydia from down the street just popped in and told me. It's really over!”

Sally was just twenty-three and wore her wedding band on a thin silver chain around her neck. Her husband of two months shipped out a full year after Bucky did. She mailed him letters constantly. She rarely got any in return.

Sally and Steve would close up shop together, and he would invite her back to the apartment, and cook her dinner, and the townsfolk talked. They would write letters together, and laugh together, and sometimes their eyes would catch in the dim hours of the early morning. She had deep brown hair, and golden brown eyes, and she swore like Bucky did, and so the townspeople talked. She was gracious, and friendly to all the customers, and her smile could light up a room, but only in the best of times. She wouldn't tell a lie to Steve. She wasn't lying.

“They're...” he wet his lips with his tongue again, searched for the right words. “They're coming home?” His voice was soft, it was thin, the words tasted sweet.

Sally just kept smiling and moved toward him. She wrapped her arms around him in the warmest embrace he could imagine.

“They're coming home. Bucky and Joe are coming home.”

***

_**James** _

**_Fall 1945_ **

The bus was crowded and smelled of stale sweat, and smoke. It ambled down the city streets with groans and whimpers, and the occasional belch of dense black smoke. Bucky tried to watch the glimpses of scenery through the dirty window, but the rapidly changing colors, landscapes, and brownstones were making the space behind his eyes start to pound.

He closed his eyes again—took a few sharp breaths in—then focused in on the interior once more.

There was a young man, reclining back in the upholstered seat across the aisle from Bucky. He looked small. He looked peaceful. Bucky stared at him, watched him give a little twitch, watched his closed eyes crinkle ever so slightly in at the corners—like perfect envelope folds. The man was still dressed in his uniform, with his hat cocked slightly askew atop his forehead. Bucky wondered if he was dreaming of something sweet—of something richly colored.

Bucky only dreamed in the gray hues of stale memories.

The bus crawled to a stop. A couple of men got off, shouldering army issue duffle bags stuffed full of belongings. A woman and her daughter stepped on in the front, paid their fare, then walked passed Bucky's seat. The little girl looked over at him—saluted and grinned, her tongue poking through holes left by newly lost teeth. He quirked a smile at her, raised his hand to his brow in a matching salute, and turned to watch her be pulled down the aisle by her mother's firm hand. She had long dark braids that danced in time with her step.

He smelled burning hair.

Bucky blinked, dropped his hand. Outside the window, the streets started to move by again. His palms started to sweat, so he wiped them carelessly on the stiff wool of his dress uniform. He gripped at his own duffle, held awkwardly between his knees, then spared one last glance at the sleeping soldier across from him. The man had moved slightly, and there was a thin sheen of sweat sparkling on his forehead. Bucky shook his head, then stood, moving to the back door of the bus. The next time the bus slowed to a stop, he stepped off.

The street was full of sound and life. There were more children on the street playing, mother's hanging laundry on stiff cording, men sitting on cement steps with cold beers. Bucky walked by, careful to smile, to tip his hat, to speak clearly and let his voice resonate deep within his chest,

“Hello, Sir'”

and

“Good evening Ma'am'”

and he was such a good young man, couldn't they all just see it, couldn't they all just see him fight bravely for his country and then return home, he was _home_ now,

the saliva he swallowed shouldn't taste so much like bile.

He wondered if Steve was home. He wondered what Steve looked like, folded up into the corner of their small patio. He wondered if Steve still drew, still painted, still dreamed, still smiled.

The children were loud. There were so many, running wild passed him, through the streets. They played tag, they played cops and robbers, they wore clothes stained with mud. Each time one passed him, laughing gleefully, his heart beat a little faster in his chest.

His ma used to read him when his was young—a story about a little tin soldier. His face felt as though it were made of that tin. In years past, some master craftsman had painstakingly painted each line, each expression, each color. Now, in the heat of the Brooklyn summer, the paint was chipping, melting grotesquely and dripping slowly down his flesh. He wondered why the children didn't scream while they ran past,

he rubbed his fingers together and felt the hard calluses left on the pads by the rifle,

blink.

He aimed, shot, reloaded.

blink.

He felt stiff hands smacking him on the back in admiration. He looked at the new insignia on his uniform and tried to feel proud.

blink.

His hands were sticky with blood.

blink.

Bucky stopped walking—looked up. The brownstone looked exactly the same—nothing had changed. The nine cement steps leading up to the front door were swept clean. All the windows had shades pulled. He stood and waited for his soul to register its moment of arrival, its own homecoming. He expected to feel something, anything, a pure bell tone resonating through his being, or the warmth of remembrance.

There was nothing.

He licked his lips and started up the steps, wrapped his fingers around the brass knob. It turned easily—opened into the hallway of the home.

“Steve?”

The call echoed achingly through the empty apartment. Bucky sighed, shouldered off the heavy duffle, and then closed the door behind him before stepping quietly through the foyer. It felt off, and wrong. It felt like he was the intruder here.

Steve had kept the place beautifully in the years that he had been away. He peeked in the living room and saw the piano—quickly turned away and headed back towards the kitchen. The table sat there, strong and sturdy. There were inks, and pencils, and papers covering it—sketches, and drawings, and paintings. Bucky's fingers touched upon each page as though it were holy. There were drawings of children, drawings of animals, and plants, drawings of Steve, and underneath all of those—drawings of Bucky. He teased some of those out from under other papers, then spread them out in front of him. He looked young. And beautiful. The drawings were all done in charcoal, quickly sketched and smudged, but he looked full of color and life. He was playing piano, he was sitting with his feet dangling carelessly over the balcony edge, he was perched on the front steps with a cigarette in his hand.

He was set against the backdrop of their apartment, the bay, the corner market, the train.

He was smiling, he was serious, he was wistful.

There was a creak from the front of the apartment and Bucky started, feeling guilty. He nudged the sketches back towards the middle of the table, then moved towards the sink and poured himself a glass of water before sitting down.

He closed his eyes for a moment and breathed.

He wished he had a rifle in his hands again to soothe the itching of his palms.

***

Mrs. Liotta was out walking her two small dogs as Steve made his way home from work. He heaved the large bag of groceries into the crook of his left arm so he could wave freely, then quickly looked down and continued towards the apartment. He knew if he paused, even for a short moment, she would hurry her way across the street to gossip.

The street was lively. He saw the children running out of the corner of his eye, saw his neighbors out enjoying the sunshine. He would normally stop to chat with anyone around—ask Maeve how her family was doing, or ask Rebecca how the twins were. Tonight he just smiled and nodded his head in short greeting, then carried on.

There was something moving in his chest tonight. It was something heavy, something fragile. It felt like it would burst into being at any moment.

He fumbled at the door for a moment, then managed to get it open with one hand and passed through. He set the bag of groceries down in the corner, turned and stripped off his work shirt with a sigh of relief. The Brooklyn days were hot, and humid, and wet. All he could think about was opening a cold beer fresh from the fridge, and picking up the charcoal again. He was in the middle of a piece right now—Bucky, with his hands splayed over the keys of the piano. He closed his eyes for a moment, and let the fresh air from the open patio wash over his sticky skin.

“Hey.”

Steve yelped in surprise as his eyes flew open again at the raspy voice.

“Oh my god. Oh my...oh god,” He clasped his hand quickly to his mouth, tried to stop the graceless words from tumbling readily from his lips. He stood, for a moment, staring.

Bucky was smaller than he remembered. Still tall, still finely muscled, still handsome, but now the skin stretched tightly across his frame. His eyes looked tired—the flesh around them was dark, almost bruised. His hair was cropped shorter than Steve remembered; tapered in on both sides, but longer on top. His dress uniform hung loosely in places, though the belt was cinched tightly around his waist. Bucky grinned suddenly, and Steve realized how uncomfortable he looked. He looked young, and sad, and so...

beautiful.

Steve could feel the smile growing behind the cover of his palm, so he dropped his hand to his side.

“Buck.” It came out like a whisper, like a sigh.

He ran to him and the embrace felt like the blossoming of a sunrise, like the first star pushing through the evening sky, as vital as breath.

The heaviness in his chest evaporated.

***

“You did not tell your commanding officer to...well...that!”

“Sure did. Thought he was gonna go for it too.” Bucky grabbed his crotch in a brief display of an unchivalrous manner and Steve collapsed on the floor in hysterics.

“You know it, Stevie. Weren't a lot of dames around to take care of things. Figured if he was gonna be a cocksucking son of a whore about the whole situation, he may as well get paid for it!”

“Christ, Barnes,” Steve gulped down another swallow of beer in between gasps for air. “You haven't changed a God-damned bit.”

Bucky quirked an eyebrow at him and sipped at his glass. “Nah. Same ol' fella here. But look at you—swearing up a storm like a right proper army brat.”

“Had to make up for you bein' gone somehow.”

“Yeah, I guess you would.” Bucky leaned back in his chair, twirling the bottle between his fingers. He watched Steve with curiosity—as though he were studying a new life form emerging in front of him.

Steve squirmed a moment, then set his empty bottle down on the floor in front of him and wiggled back to the wall, legs stretched out in front of him and looked up at the table and Bucky.

“You miss home out there a lot? You miss me?”

Steve spoke plainly, starkly against the sudden quiet.

“Yeah.” Bucky kept watching—didn't look away. “Sure I did. Course I did.”

Steve looked down again, fingers tracing invisible patterns into the hardwood of the floor. “I missed you, y'know. I was scared all the time for you. Still am.” He paused. “It's just the pits writing letters all the time and never knowing if you're getting them, or if you're writing back or...” Steve scrubbed at the bridge of his nose with his right hand.

“Shit Rogers. Alcohol makes you a melancholy little punk.”

Steve looked up again. Bucky was still looking right at him—not moving, not blinking. Steve glared.

“You only ever call me Rogers when you're pissed or you don't want me to know you're getting emotional. I know your number Buck. You felt it too.”

He tried to return the harsh stare and tried to shake off the feeling of unease that kept interrupting his thoughts. There was something different in Bucky's gaze now, something different about his eyes. It wasn't the color. He could still get lost in the minutia of colors that swirled effortlessly around the iris. It's just, now, there was something else twisting along—some emotion, some fear, some pain.

He looked away.

“Yeah, Steve. I felt it too.”

The words felt hollow. He wanted Bucky to talk. He wanted Bucky to share and to speak and to tell Steve everything because then he could maybe share some of the burden—he could maybe smooth out some of the new lines that creased his forehead, erase some of the dark shadows under his eyes. He tried a new tactic.

“I had a man come out last year to look at the old piano—tune it up real good again. You should maybe try it out. Play a bit?”

Bucky stood up suddenly and finished the last of his beer, then made his way quickly over to the fridge. “Nah. Don't do that anymore. Want another beer?”

“Oh. Uh, sure, I'll take another. You don't do that any—”

“What do you mean you had a man come out last year? What'd you pay him with Stevie? You gotta worry about making rent, about feeding yourself, about buying your medicine, not pianos...” Bucky drifted off, staring at the two new beers he grasped in his hand. He shook his head, then walked over and handed one to Steve, before sitting back down at the table.

“Well,” Steve took a new drink and felt the alcohol coursing through his bloodstream. “Did you get my letter about my promotion?”

“Sure did.” Bucky smiled then, and it looked genuine, real, but it felt like the ghost of something that once was.

Steve blinked, then tried to continue. “So I'm the manager of the corner market now. Old Tim promoted me to assistant manager late last year, then when that was going so well, he decided to just retire and let me take over. Things have actually been really great over here since the war's been going on. Big economy boom and all that. Lots of need for extra workers, even the dames are all going to work now in the factories and stores in town and, well,” he took a moment to gather his thoughts again and to study Bucky. “So I'm manager now, and it's going real well, and I've been paying the rent on my own now with plenty to spare for the last eight months.”

“Steve, that's...well that's just fantastic!”

“Yeah. Guess you were right in the end. I had no business being at those enlistment centers after all.”

“Course I was right. I'm always right.”

Bucky ran his hand through his hair and Steve had a momentary memory of those hands ruffling his own hair, stroking at his scalp—a warm, even voice asking him to breathe through it. He remembered warmth, the feeling of belonging as he curled up against Bucky's chest. The pain of not being able to draw in a proper breath, the terrifying echoing pain once the air did come. He stood up suddenly, and walked to the table, placing his palm over Bucky's hand.

Bucky jerked away—almost knocked over his bottle.

“Shit. Sorry, Steve. You scared me. I just don't like people touching me much anymore. Sorry.”

“No, of course, Buck...I didn't mean...I...I'm sorry.”

Steve stood there, awkwardly, unsure of what came next, unsure of how to act, how to proceed with this new character in his story.

Bucky motioned towards the chair, though his eyes were still cold—lost in some moment Steve was never a part of.

“Sit. Please, sit with me?”

“Oh. Of course. Yeah. Of course.”

Steve moved slowly into the neighboring chair, and sat next to Bucky, still and motionless, trying desperately to find the right piece of memory pull their divergent paths back together.

Each moment passed them by in a peaceful decline.

***

_With every desperate inhale, he swallowed more mud. The rain was coming down so hard, so fast, that the landscape all around them was dissolving away into nothingness. He tried to catch himself. He pulled himself up on the nearest limb, a branch, a root, a hand, a body. He needed to live, he needed to breathe, he needed to free himself. There was a gasping sound all around him, but he wasn't breathing, his mouth was too full of mud to breath so he held his breath and moved._

_The gasping continued, grew louder, it filled his senses with it's panic. His heart was racing because the clock was almost done, he would never make it, he had to get to the top of the mountain if he wanted to live and he so badly wanted to live. He was starting to choke on the mud, it was thinning now and running down the back of his throat and it tasted of copper because the mountain was no longer land—it was bodies of men, his men, their faces were all frozen in a rictus of pain and their bodies were missing legs, and arms, and blood, he was choking on blood_

_The gasping grew louder._

_His head was fuzzy and he still couldn't breath, but the peak was so close, he only had to shoot one more man, one more husband, one more child,_

_The gasping turned to groans and they filtered through his being—he swallowed,_

he opened his eyes.

He could still hear the gasping coming from the bedroom around the corner, and he jolted upright, moving quickly, bits of dreamscape falling heavily to the ground around him as he moved.

“Steve?”

His voice was hoarse and cracked. He licked his lips and swallowed away the mud and tried again.

“Steve?”

Steve was in bed, under a thick woolen blanket, but he was shaking and gasping. Bucky shook his head for a moment, tried to speak.

He tried to move, but the weight of the earth was crushing him.

Steve was making high pitched little wails—tiny sounds—he couldn't breath, but Bucky couldn't get to him.

He tried to move but the weight of the bodies were crushing him.

Steve was moving. He was reaching his hand towards something in his desk, fumbling around with a small box, pulling out an asthma cigarette,

He tried to think but he was mired in sludge.

He was by the bed now, reaching out, trying to steady Steve. He was speaking now, “Steve, Steve, Steve,” it was his mantra and it was back.

Steve was sitting now, gasping still, but gulping in air and exhaling in heavy, heaving sighs.. His left hand was grasping Bucky's—the skin was white with tension. Bucky pulled away, stepped back, stood up straight, tried to shake the fuzziness of the military dream from the present.

“Hey...” he still didn't know what to say. Words didn't feel like they belonged to him. They felt heavy on his tongue.

“ It’s ok, Buck.” A pause then, time for a breath. “ 'm ok. It's ok.”

Bucky stood, still straight, head tilted slightly as he studied Steve.

“I didn't know what to do.”

He spoke, and the phrase was so loud in the small room. So full of sorrow. He hated himself for that.

Steve held up his hand, as if to say 'wait', and kept breathing for a moment. Bucky kneeled down by the side of the bed—sat his back up against the small dresser, and leaned his head on the mattress.

“I forgot how to help.”

A whisper. An epitaph.

The moonlight illuminated one spot on the bed. Bucky studied it—studied the threadbare blues and greens of the weave. Steve's breathing grew steadier, easier. The smell of the herbal cigarette permeated the air as the silence grew between them.

Steve reached out and touched Bucky's head softly, curled his finger tips around his scalp and made small, soothing motions. Bucky tried not to flinch away. He tried not to think about the mud.

“It's ok, you know. I got this. I got it under control.”

Steve's voice sounded small and harsh. Bucky sighed and looked up at him, and the hand dropped away.

“I forgot everything.”

Steve smiled down at him. “Nah. You didn't forget. You just had a few other things to think about, to clutter up your mind. I'm still Steve. You're still Bucky. You remember the important things.”

Bucky looked up at him and studied Steve's small form. Steve was taking another long drag from the rolled joint and leaned back with a deep sigh, eyes half-lidded. He spoke again after a few moments, even softer this time.

“I'm still Steve. And if you wanna talk about anything...any of it...well. I'm not going anywhere.”

Bucky kept watching him. He watched him inhale deeply, and blow out the thick smoke. He could smell the herbs now, the smell of medicine, of green, of earth. Steve finished the cigarette, then reached over and stubbed it out on the small tray on his nightstand. He stayed like that, propped up on one side, looking, staring, his face inches from Bucky's own. They were close enough to touch if one of them moved ever so slightly forward—there was an electricity now, a current running between them.

“You gonna be alright now?”

His voice whispered across the space, barely making a sound. He could see the pale skin of Steve's neck, he could almost see the vibrations from the syllables creating ripples across the fine hairs there.

Steve nodded, almost imperceptibly.

He could see the pale skin of Steve's face streaked in carnage.

He jerked back.

“Buck?”

“Better try and get some more sleep. I'm still tryin' to catch up. Years of not sleeping and all that. Holler if you need anything, you want some water or something beside the bed? I can get you a glass—”

“I'm fine, Buck.”

Steve scowled at him and the face was so familiar, it sent a jolt of recognition through Bucky's bones. He stuttered to a halt in the doorway, paused, then tried to smile.

“Night, Steve.”

“See ya' in the morning, Buck”

He edged his way back to the couch, feeling his way through the apartment in the darkness. Nothing was recognizable, nothing was where he remembered, he stumbled and felt it through his core, nothing was _right_.

He curled up and counted to sixty, tried to slow his heartbeat.

One.

Two.

Three.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Steve dying in the mud.

He counted to sixty again.

He counted to sixty again.

He counted to sixty again.

He watched the patio. As the sky began to lighten in slight increments and variations, he finally fell asleep.

***

He tried to get a job.

Steve woke up early each morning and washed up, then left for the day. He always made them both breakfast. They sat together at the scarred wooden table. Steve would smile, would talk, would rub the sleep from his eyes. He would stand and smooth down his button down shirt into his trousers, give a tug on his suspenders, smile gently at Bucky, and leave for work for the day—easing the door closed behind him.

That was the part Bucky liked best.

It felt like an awful parody of the way things were before the war. Steve was working full time. Steve was paying for the apartment, was paying for the groceries, was taking care of everything, and Bucky,

Bucky was,

Bucky was trying.

Bucky listened to Steve, and nodded, and grunted, and smiled in the right places, and the surround melody of a simple morning turned to hissing in his ears until the door shut.

Then he sighed. Then he let the tension drip from his shoulders and neck and pool beneath him, sticky like honey, like tar. Then the silence filled the apartment and he could settle into it and close his eyes, and let each part of his soul float out away from him, in space, in an exquisite chaos.

Sometimes, he didn't open his eyes until the door swung open again, hours later.

Steve would enter again.

Steve would make dinner.

Bucky would stand, would help, would speak, would laugh.

The hissing returned.

He wondered if each day, he lost more of himself in those moments. He wondered if the pieces of spirit he released returned themselves to dust or if they came back, wary and frightened.

Sometimes he stood up and washed. Went through the motions. Left the apartment and wandered the Brooklyn streets. He popped his head in shops and stores, looking for anyone who needed help. He was surprised to see the women running things now. There were old men working, and boys working, and gals he used to sweet-talk working. The young men who fought seemed slow to enter back into society. He felt useless, cast aside. They looked at him like he was a hero. He smiled, and waved, and scanned the rooftops looking for the best locations to set up a rife.

Weeks passed.

He found a part time job back at the docks. They always needed a hand, always needed strength, and he could throw himself into the basic sweaty work and concentrate on the way his muscles stretched and pulled--he could concentrate on the sound of the water hitting the docks in uneven staccato rhythm. 

On the good days, he got to the docks as the sun rose. He dressed in old work trousers, with his shirtsleeves rolled up. The clothes hung loosely on his frame. He dressed quickly because he couldn’t stand to look at his skin, stretched so thinly over bone.

On the bad days, he didn’t leave the couch. He didn’t pull himself to the table as Steve prepared for the day. He didn’t make a sound. He turned over, with his back to the open room, and squeezed his eyes as tightly as he could. His hands balled into fists and his fingernails cut through skin, and he tried not to think about how loud his heartbeat was, about how much it sounded like tank fire. 

On the bad days he didn’t notice Steve. On the bad days he thought about olive groves.

On the bad days he wished he were dead.

***

Steve was scribbling his signature on stacks of old receipts when another coughing fit took him. He hunched over, tried to catch his breath. He caught himself on the wooden desk and his left hand scrabbled for the small top drawer for his asthma cigarettes. 

His eyes were watering and he couldn’t seem to stop the wet hacking noise escaping from his mouth, then Sally was there behind him, there rummaging through the desk drawer. He was still coughing but she was there with the lighter, there handing him the cigarette, and he was trying to inhale the oily, herbal scent through quick gasps.

He stayed like that for a moment, bent over the desk and puffing away. Her hand was resting on his upper back and he could feel it now, could feel the breeze coming in from the open window, could hear it rustle the stacks of papers next to his hand. He looked up, gave her a tight smile, then sighed heavily and sat down on the wooden stool perched by his leg. 

“It’s getting worse.”

He closed his eyes and inhaled, reaching for the faint scent of the sea rolling in from the docks.

“Nah. It just goes through phases.”

“Steve, you’re coughing up blood.”

He opened his eyes and looked back at Sally--saw the concern etched in her face. He looked down at the palm his left hand, the cigarette clutched between his third and fourth fingers. There were small spots of dark blood speckling the pale skin. He transferred the smoke to his right hand and quickly wiped the left on the fabric of his slacks.

“It’s fine. Bucky’s seen worse.”

They sat in silent for a few minute. Steve closed his eyes again and breathed--tried to conjure up the sound of piano keys tinkling through the salty air. The imaginary chords fell flat. 

He sighed, and spun to face Sally.

“Are things good with Joe home?”

“Oh!” She looked surprised for a second, then she blew a stray curl from her face. “Things are nuts, really. He took me to this ritzy place the other night and we ate and no fooling, Steve, the sex was wild. We got back to the apartment and he just held me up against the kitchen sink and--”

“Shit, Sally, quit it!” Steve could feel the heat rising from his neck into his cheeks. He rubbed at his hairline with his free hand. “I get it, I get it already!”

Sally winked at him. “I’m pretty stuck on him. I’m sure glad he’s back. We can celebrate our belated nuptials properly now. With kitchen sinks.”

Steve threw up his hands in mock disgust and rolled his eyes.

“How’s Bucky?”

He looked down at his feet. “Oh. Bucky’s good.”

“Well blow me down, Steven, I’m thoroughly convinced now.”

“Did you just quote Popeye at me? And did you just call me _Steven_?”

Sally grinned, then hoisted herself gracefully up on the desk across from him. She crossed her legs, then wiggled a bit while pulling down her pencil skirt which had hitched up precariously high. She seemed unconcerned. 

“You can talk to me. We’re friends. Talk to me.”

Steve took one last drag from the remnants of the medicine, then leaned over and stubbed it out on the ashtray he had propped on the desk.

“Things are just different. It’s fine. I’m trying. We’re trying. It’s just different.”

She looked at him in silence, waiting for him to continue. He sighed.

“I just….I don’t know. I knew not to expect the same Bucky back. He’s been gone for three years. Gone at war, at battle, seeing men die. That’s enough to change anyone. It’d be enough to change me.” He paused and thought for a moment. “I’m not really bein’ totally fair expecting things to be exactly like they were. But I thought we’d at least talk. I thought he’d at least tell me about it. Tell me what’s bothering him. Let me...in.”

Sally reached out as though to put a hand on his knee and he glared at her. She quickly withdrew. 

“Steve, you said it yourself. He saw some horrible stuff. And that changes a man. He just needs some time--”

“It’s not just that. Before he left, well...he was takin’ care of me. But he wanted to be a pianist before that. And he could’ve if it weren’t for me. He was real good. Real talented. He used to go to work all day at the docks, and come back sweaty, and smelling like cigarettes and tar and...Bucky. But he’d come in and smile, drop his things at the door, and sit on that bench and _play_. He could play.”

Steve looked over his shoulder, out the window for a moment. There was a black crow sitting on the sill, regarding him with careful solemnity. “Now. He won’t play. He won’t even look at it. It’s like there is a part of him a part of his soul that just got cut out and left on the battlefield. And he won’t let me in, and he won’t talk about it, and it--”

Sally’s hand was on his leg now and he did nothing to shake it off.

“It hurts.” 

His voice was quiet but his heart beat loudly. Outside the window, the crow took off in flight suddenly. The sound it’s wings made stirring up the breeze felt lonely. 

Sally looked on in silence.

***

The slip into insanity crept up quickly and unobserved--like the small passing of time between hot to boiling water; like the sudden bloom of a night lily. He didn’t recognize it for what it was. Instead he played at house, played at simple games of the living. 

And each night, the flower blossomed. 

_He can feel the water pouring down around him, on top of him. He’s crouched in his foxhole and everything around him is pure black. He can hear screams. He can hear gunshots. He can hear death._

_He’s not moving and he’s not moving and he’s not moving while the water covers him. It’s up to his mouth, to his nose, he is swallowing around it. There is a movement right above his hole, but it is pure black and he can’t see. He closes his eyes. The water creeps up his nose until it touches the back of his throat and he opens his eyes to move but he can’t, a little girl is crawling in next to him, watching him. She grabs the barrel of his gun as the water covers his eyes. He keeps them open enough to see her swallow the muzzle. He pulls the trigger._

He opened his eyes.

He looked for the girl.

She wasn’t there. 

He pulled up the blanket, and turned over, and watched the sun come up. It was amazing, the colors of red that could paint the sky. He heard Steve get up for the day, wash up, move into the kitchen to make breakfast. Bucky didn’t move. He heard Steve walk to the front room, to where the couch is, to where Bucky was. Bucky didn’t move. He heard Steve kneel down beside him. He felt Steve’s breath on the back of his neck.

“Buck?”

It was quiet and hesitant. It was the sound of a bell that has been dampened before it was allowed to ring.

Bucky didn’t move.

He heard Steve return to the kitchen, wash the dishes, put on his coat, grab his keys. He heard Steve pause by the front door.

He heard Steve leave.

***

Bucky was washing dishes at the sink when it came upon him so suddenly he couldn’t breath. He was standing there, running a cloth around the lip of a drinking glass and humming a Joe Turner tune when the glass broke under his calloused fingers. Fresh blood gathered at the seam of a split on his first knuckle and slowly beaded up, oozed down, dropped onto the white porcelain with a final sigh.

He saw the face of a young man in front of him, bashed in with the butt of a rifle.

A sudden anger overtook him, hard and fast. He felt heat wash from the back of his spine up to the top of his neck; he felt his ears turn red with the rage of it. He spun, and threw the shattered remains of the glass with all his might at kitchen entryway and screamed his impotence.

Steve was at the door frame.

“Buck?”

Steve was curled up on the desert land holding a string of intestines to the gaping wound in his stomach and he was gasping out a name.

Bucky grabbed at his hair with both hands and folded over.

“Bucky!”

Steve was in his suit and tie and was glimmering in the sunlight with the sweat of the day upon his brow.

Bucky shrank down with his back to the sink and tried to breath. The rage hung onto him with sharp, clawed nails.

Steve had move from the entryway and was beside him now, with his hand around him. They weren’t supposed to be like this. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Bucky shuddered and Steve was aiming a rifle at him and shooting, and aiming a rifle and shooting, and aiming a rifle and shooting and Bucky could feel every bullet enter his flesh and exit leaving shredded, torn skin.

He shuddered out of Steve’s embrace. “Just don’t. Steve. Please don’t.”

His vision was still hazy and he couldn’t breathe quite right and all he wanted to do was run as far and as fast as he could. All he wanted to do was be swallowed by ocean. All he wanted to do was kill, and murder, and die.

Steve was still beside him and Bucky realized he was speaking.

“It just takes time, Buck. It’ll just take time and you’ll be alright, I know you’ll be alright.”

All he wanted to do was cry, and be alone.

“We’ll be alright.” Steve’s voice was quiet and calm. Bucky hated him for it.

“We’ll be alright.”

***

They tried to eat dinner that night. Bucky had calmed down a bit--had spent some time on his couch, turned away, imagining somewhere else. 

Now they were seated at the table, across from one another. Steve was still gentle. Still calm and collected. Still acting like he was about to spook a wild animal. They ate their meal in silence and Bucky tried to quiet the voices in his head that were screaming so loudly. He tried to relax his face. He tried to smile.

A sudden shriek echoed through their apartment from the street outside and Bucky jolted—knocking his beer to the floor with a shattering noise of glass.

“Shit. Shit, I'm sorry Steve, I'm—”

“It's ok, Bucky. Just the neighborhood kids. They're always up this late, runnin' around and playin'.”

Bucky hunched over on the floor, and tried to pick up pieces of broken glass with his bare hands--scooped amber liquid towards the center of the spill. He murmured to himself now, a berating, expletive-filled monologue. 

“Buck. It's it's fine. It's just the kids. I'll clean it up ok?” Steve stood over him, and Bucky tried not to shrink away. He tried to pick up the fragments. Steve’s hand reached out and touched his shoulder and he flinched.

“It’s ok. Grab a few more beers why don’tcha? I’ll get this.” Steve grabbed a small broom from it’s place behind the garbage bin and knelt down, sweeping at the broken bottle. Bucky did his part. He stood. He took a breath. He moved over to the fridge, and grabbed two more, and popped the tops with a satisfying ‘snick’ of sound. He sat back at the table. Steve joined him.

“Sarah says that Joe gets afraid of noise sometimes.”

Bucky felt the anger flame deep within him. He swallowed a sip of cold beer. Steve continued talking.

“It’s normal, I think. I just...I just want to be here for you if you need to talk. If you need anything. You’ve always been here for me and...” he paused and looked down at the table. Bucky looked at his own hand. It was white with tension. “I just am here if you need anything.”

The anger took hold. He didn’t know what was wrong with him.

“Mmmm.” Bucky took another small sip. “Ok Stevie. You wanna get real? You wanna talk about feelings? Sure. I was scared shitless.” He drank again, a bigger gulp this time. “I missed you like hell. And I missed our apartment. Missed the noises from the street. Missed hearing those kids scream bloody murder right outside the window, missed sittin' on the balcony rail out there watchin' you draw your pictures and feelin' like I might fall or I might not. I missed all that, but it didn't change shit. I got your letters. I wrote you back too—every single time. I know you probably never got 'em. But I kept all yours with me. Every time I got a new one, it would go in another one of my pockets. I was shooting Nazis and men and kids. Steve, they were just kids, but they were on the wrong side so I killed 'em.”

He sat up in his chair, his eyes far away.

“I killed them, and I did it 'cause I had to, and I did it because every time I came back to base alive I had more letters from you telling me to come back home, and to be a hero, and how proud you were of me—”

“That's not fair Bucky..”

It wasn’t fair.

He stood up and finished the last of his beer. “I need to go to sleep. Steve. Sorry. It’s been a long day.”

Bucky tried not to look at Steve as he turned to walk from the kitchen. He didn’t want to see the disappointment. Steve’s voice still followed him through the walkway.

“It’s alright, Buck. I’ll be here whenever you need. Whatever you need to say. I’ll be here.”

He wanted to tear the skin from his bones.

***

The morning after, Steve found the letter.

_Dear Steve,_

_I’m not sure how to do this. How to live this way anymore. Some moments I feel like I am being swallowed up by something dark, something evil. I can’t move. I can’t scream. Some moments it feels like everything is going to be alright. Some moments I want to punch through the walls, and rip out my own hair, and close my hands tightly around something alive and squeeze until it’s heart stops. That one’s the worst. Knowing that I know how to kill. Knowing that I like to kill._

_It doesn’t feel like it’s getting better. I’m trying. I hope you know that. I’m really trying. But you said it yourself last night._

_It’s not fair._

_It’s not fair for you. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I can’t be better. I’m sorry I didn’t play piano again._

_I’ll be back. I promise._

_Bucky_

 


	4. Samson

_**James** _

**_1945- Spring, 1952_ **

He spent the first three years on the road picking his way along Route 66. He’d stop off in a city, work a few odd jobs, save up enough for another bus ticket, then pop back on the Greyhound and move on down the line. He liked Kansas and Oklahoma well enough. They were green, landscaped and friendly. He didn’t have to talk much, just nodded his head at folks and breathed the fresh air that smelled vaguely of livestock.

He hated Texas. Swore most of his way through Arizona and New Mexico. It was a hellishly hot, dusty, barren landscape. He’d step outside and his eyeballs would feel like they were shriveling out of his head within minutes. He could watch the sweat evaporate from his arms--watch the salt dry in small white patches that he could flake off his skin.

In California, he started to remember. He found himself out on the water one afternoon--standing on a boardwalk with the scent of spun sugar all around. He watched a ferris wheel spinning in the distance, and heard the laughter of children. There was a couple standing not far off from him--a fellow with his arm around his dame. The boy leaned in towards her cheek and Bucky could hear her peel of laughter carry on the wind. They kissed--a short, peckish thing, and Bucky felt something tear inside his chest.

Steve refused the Cyclone after that first time, but he’d always ride the ferris wheel when they headed down to Coney Island in the summers. He’d inch himself over in the little booth and Bucky would squeeze in beside him, then they’d be off--higher and higher in the dusky New York air. They could both breathe when they were up that high. Bucky could feel the air get cooler, could feel his lungs expand to take it all in. They’d laugh too--short little bursts that bounced off the booth walls then evaporated as soon as they hit the wall of air. 

Later, when they shut the Island down for training for the troops, he couldn’t breathe like that. Instead, the boardwalk resounded with the stomping of sentries’ feet, and the air felt thick with unease. 

He left California after a week. It felt too close to home. The tearing got too painful. He hopped the Greyhound again and made his way back to a place more comfortable.

He settled down for a bit in November of 1950. He picked up a job at the local hardware store--they were short on help and all too happy to offer a job to a war hero with few questions asked. He found a small apartment, and revelled in the routine of it all; wake up, open shop, sit behind the large workbench. Greet customers, then close up shop as the sun set. Walk the two blocks home. Sleep. Begin again. The town was small and friendly, but he could get away with only a few words here and there.

The one perfect part of Carthage, Mississippi was the brand new drive in theater out on Route 66. He kept time by the movies that rolled through the town; A Streetcar Named Desire, The African Queen. The week Showboat came out, he whistled his way through restocking screws and bolts. The month Singing in the Rain was there, he spent every night on the bleachers. 

He hummed music from that movie everywhere he went. The voice that filled in the harmonies was Steve’s, and it didn’t hurt the same way it once had. He noted this with a casual disinterest, as though not wanting to frighten away the small pieces of himself that were starting to emerge from their hiding.

He went to an art supply store that week. Bought a few sketch pads and some charcoal. Sat cross legged off a rickety dock in Lakeside Park and drew the water. It made his fingers tingle with memory, it made his heart beat faster. He thought about Steve and he could breathe.

The next week he visited a record store and found a recording of the Chopin Nocturnes. There was a new record player in the hardware store, and he put it on, resetting the needle each time it scratched to a finish. It opened something new in him--a longing, a need.

Two weeks later, he said his short goodbyes. The next day he bought a one way bus ticket to Chicago, and from there got on a train to New York. 

He’d left New York a burgeoning metropolis in 1946. When he returned, it was darker, dirtier, and more crowded than he ever imagined. It smelled like age.It smelled like sweat. It smelled like home. He hauled his bags out of the storage compartment and as he left the train, he smiled. It was May of 1952.

***

The nine steps leading up to the front door each had tiny terracotta pots with purple petunia flowers blooming. They were cute, and perky. They were different.

The dark wood of the front door had been painted over with a light blue. It looked nice--clean. It looked different.

Bucky swallowed, and glanced around the empty street before he set his bags down on the bottom step. He wiped his hands on his pants--new, clean, dark wool. He had put on weight in six years. He had color in his cheeks. He wore his hair longer now--no longer the sharp army cut, but not so long as to attract attention. He ran his hand through his hair, brushed it out of his eyes, and then wiped both hands on his jacket before starting up the steps.

He could smell the flowers.

He knocked before thinking any longer.

Within moments, a pretty young girl answered the door.

“Hello!”

Bucky stared.

“If you are selling something, my husband won’t be home until five, so...sorry about that!”

She was dressed in a sky blue tea dress with a floral apron pulled tightly around her waist. She matched the paint of the door. Her hair was set in perfect brown curls, and her lips were pink with lipstick. She was adorable. Bucky opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again--lost for words.

“Or were you not selling something? I’m so sorry! Were you one of George’s friends?”

He finally shook his head, then spoke. “Steve? I came by to see...Steve?” He could see a few steps inside the foyer. The walls were no longer painted a drab white, but were covered in bright floral paper. He looked back at the girl, and her eyes crinkled in confusion. 

“I’m sorry?”

Uneasiness and embarrassment was starting to flower. He could feel his cheeks turning red.

“Shoot, Ma’am. I’m sorry. I used to...my friend and I used to live here. This was his house. Our house, really. Steve Rogers?”

“Oh.” Her face fell a bit, and she looked behind her for a moment, then down at her feet. “Do you want to just come in for a bit?”

“No, not at all!” Bucky spoke quickly, flustered. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you. I just didn’t know that he moved. I left a while back...well...some years ago. We kind of fell out of touch. I just wanted to come by and see him,” he backed down a step. “Thanks so much for your time. I’ll try the store he worked at.”

“No, wait,” her hand flew out and caught his arm and he was surprised by the heat from her touch--by the softness of her fingers. “Please, come in. At least see the house. Your house.”

He could feel the unease fermenting in his gut. He followed her inside and noted the floral scent, the brightness of the walls, the feminine touches everywhere. 

“The piano’s gone!” He wasn’t sure why he spoke, or why it hit such a sour chord in his stomach to see the empty space on the far wall.

The girl was wringing her hands now, looking nervous. “Oh, well, neither of us can play...me or George I mean. We just didn’t need it around here anymore and it was old and mostly broken--”

“I just can’t believe he wouldn’t take it with him still. It was his Mom’s you know. She owned the house first.”

He was rambling now, and he wasn’t sure why. It felt like he needed to keep talking, to speak over her, to create a space for pause in this moment and slowly back away from the perfect caricature of his imperfect past.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name, Sir?”

“Oh, James. You can call me James.”

He shut his mouth, tried to think. Tried to plan. He would go to the store next, see if Steve still worked there. If he didn’t, then maybe Sarah was there. Steve wrote about her enough in letters--Bucky was sure she would have an idea.

“I’m sorry, James, when we bought this house…” she trailed off as if gathering her thoughts, and he watched her again--carefully. “We bought this house three years ago. The man who was here before us lived alone, so maybe it isn’t the same person, but…” She drifted off again and Bucky wanted to shake her, or leave, or back up and not walk up the steps of the house with the perfectly potted petunias. “...but I do know that the man who was here before us died. He was very sick, we were told. Nothing contagious or anything. They told us that he sold the house to help pay for his hospitalization.”

Bucky had backed his way to the front door again. The empty hole where the piano used to sit looked barren, looked like a gaping wound in an otherwise pristine house. There was a ringing in his head, so he swallowed, tried to breathe through it.

“I told him I’d come back.”

“I’m sorry?”

Her voice was too sweet--too syrupy. He wanted to let the anger erupt again, but it was no longer accessible. It was gone and buried. He just shook his head, backed up, let his softly murmured words fall lifelessly from his lips.

“I told him I’d come back.”

***

He went down to the general store. It had to be a mistake, surely it was all a mistake and Steve had just sold the house, was haunted by the memories there, needed to start off new and set things straight.

His own inflated sense of ego seemed to still be intact.

Still. Steve most likely sold the overly large building, and moved into a much smaller apartment--used the extra cash to pay for medicine, food, bills, anything.

The door tinkled festively as he pushed it opened and he looked down to see faded, out of season jingle bells adorning the handle. The girl at the counter looked up, and Bucky immediately recognized her as Steve’s second-in-command--Sally. She turned white as a ghost, held her hand up to her painted red lips and made these awful little squeaks of surprise, horror, joy, and anger. Bucky could see why Steve liked her so much--she was quite a character.

She shut the store down that afternoon, and they talked.

Steve had died in July of 1950--three years and nine months after Bucky left New York. He was always sick to begin with, but in the end it was another bout of pneumonia that took him down. He picked it up in the winter of that year and couldn’t shake it. Sold the house, sold the store to Sally and Joe (who had earned that degree) and spent his last three months in a hospital bed, too weak to move. 

Sally visited him daily.

Bucky didn’t want to know if Steve asked after him, and to her credit, she didn’t bring it up.

He couldn’t take knowing that, on top of everything else.

Before he left, she gave him a stack of letters. She was saving them she said. Just in case. They were all addressed with no address--simply 'Buck'.

***

He opened the first letter while sitting on the boardwalk; his legs dangled off the side, and a chilly wind swept through blowing salty spray.

_Dear Bucky,_

_You absolute jerk._

_A letter? A letter Buck? I waited three years, eight months, two weeks and two days (yeah, I counted it jerk) for you to come back from the war and that entire time I got 2 letters from you. (Ok, I know you sent more than that and the post is really at fault, but still!) And I never knew if you were dead somewhere in a hole with your guts spilling out, or if they’d even find your body, or if you’d ever return at all._

_But you did. You returned._

_Then you go and leave in the middle of the night and leave me another shitty letter!_

There was a sudden loud disturbance at the end of the pier where two gulls were fighting over the remains of a Coney hot dog. Bucky looked up from the letter and watched for a moment, then sighed. He could hear Steve’s voice loud and clear in his head. He could hear the anger, the frustration. He could see the redness of his cheeks in his mind. He turned back to the page.

_I know things were bad. I know you were having a rough time. I’m sorry. I wish I could have done something. I wish I could have done everything. You never deserved to feel that way, or to be that way and it just killed me to see it._

_I hope this helps. I really hope you find what you’re looking for, Buck. I think you are a jerk and a punk and an idiot for the way you did it, but I really hope you find something._

_(I’m still sore. You owe me for this.)_

_I miss you._

_Yours always,_

_Steve_

Bucky looked back over the water again. He could hear the screams of people from the rickety track of the Cyclone--he could see the flashing lights of the ferris wheel. It was like California, almost, but it was more real. It was more distilled. He missed Steve, but New York still felt right.

He read the second and third letters as he walked the couple miles back to the small apartment he was renting. He couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t stand to leave Steve mad at him, even if only on paper.

Steve described his day throughout them both. They were eerily similar to the letters Bucky would receive on the warfront--hour by hour details of the most mundane events. They were comforting. They felt like home, and friendship, and distance, and love. They were each dated exactly a week apart, and they were each signed the same way: I miss you. Yours always, Steve.

He slept that night on the small couch in the foyer of the apartment. He had a wool blanket that he pulled up around his chin. He dreamed of sand, and beaches. He dreamed of Steve. He dreamed of them both running barefoot through sticky clouds, of scooping up the fluff and swallowing it thickly down. He dreamed of a man with a rifle, but he turned his boyish back and ran giggling through the sky.

***

He opened the fourth letter on his apartment balcony. It wasn’t the same as the old brownstone. There was no nook for a small artist boy to curl into lazily. It wasn’t even large enough to step fully out onto. He opened the screen door and leaned out over the iron cast rail and listened to the woman below him beat her kitchen rug with a broom handle, and he read:

_Dear Bucky,_

_I just wish I had a way to send these to you. I’m not going to stop writing them. When you come back, I’ll just give you a giant stack and watch you as the guilt hits you with the force of a bag of bricks. It will bring me joy._

_I’m particularly petty today._

_Joe’s been coming by the store a bunch more lately to see Sally. He went back to college! He’s trying to get a degree in some sort of business...I don’t know what exactly. But that G.I. Bill they’ve been talking about everywhere is actually paying his tuition for him to do it, and he’s smiling now when he comes by--really smiling._

_I’ve been thinking about it a lot actually. You know, that bill paying the tuition. If you come back, **when** you come back, you could maybe apply for it to help you get back to school. Go get your music degree? Play piano again. Do all the things that you wanted to before you moved in to help me._

_I don’t know. It’s just a thought. I miss the way you played at night. I miss the wistful smile on your face, and the way you would sigh and sort of melt into the music._

_I sound like a dame._

_I miss the way you played Chopin and made it sound so macho and strong._

_Better now?_

_I’ll probably just conveniently forget to give you this letter with the stack. This is getting out of hand._

_Mostly I just miss you, Buck. I hope you are finding some peace. I hope you come back soon. I know you aren’t the same person anymore, I hope you understand that I know that and don’t expect it of you. Just come back safe._

_I miss you._

_Yours Always,_

_Steve_

***

There were forty-four letters in all. Twenty-eight of them were written weekly, then they slowed to once a month. Steve had written for a full year and eleven months after Bucky left New York and then abruptly stopped with no warning.

Bucky figured he had been too sick to continue.

He read the last letter from the sidewalk of their old street--leaning up against a metal lamp post, and gazing every so often up at the old brownstone they had so frequently entered together.

_Dear Bucky,_

_I went uptown last night to a jazz club with a few new friends. There was this amazing band there, with a trumpet player who was like crazy! You would’ve loved it. You really would’ve._

_I tried to draw him the next morning. I tried to remember him, and put the strokes down on the paper in a way that would bring back the memory of how he could play._

_Didn’t work so well. But I think I’m really onto something new here, something great. I’ll keep working at it so I can show you once you get back. I’ve got new charcoals and oils that are just heaven to work with so I’ll keep at it._

_I’ve been thinking about getting a cat lately, just to piss you off. I know you can’t stand ‘em. Yeah, I think I’m gonna really do it, get a cat and name it Bucky. It’ll serve you right._

_I miss you Bucky. Come home soon._

_I miss you._

_Yours Always,_

_Steve_

***

It took him three more weeks before he was able to visit Steve’s grave.

It was a tiny cemetery plot by a thick grove of trees. If he walked a bit over the hill, he could see a small lake. It was idyllic, and peaceful, and the sky was a vivid shade of blue that spread as far as he could see.

It was quiet like death, and it lacked the warmth of Steve’s smile.

Bucky brought flowers with him--sunflowers--because he didn’t know what else to do. He laid them carefully on top of the small headstone and sighed.

**Steven G. Rogers**

**1918 -1949**

There wasn’t much to the space but dry grass. The sunflowers looked bright and cheerful for now. He knew they would wilt within a day.

“Shit.”

He sunk down to his knees and knelt with his head in his hands, as though in prayer.

“I’m so sorry, Steve. I’m so, so, sorry. I always meant to come back. I did come back. It just…” he shuffled slightly and took a deep breath. “It just wasn’t soon enough. I got your letters though. I read them all.”

Bucky moved then--wiggled his hand out and touched the gravestone.

“I wish I knew what happened to your sketch books. Sally told me that they weren’t with any of your things. I really wish I could see the last things you were working on. You were always really talented, Steve. So talented.”

The sun moved incrementally as the afternoon passed in weighted summer solitude and Bucky talked.

He talked about the war, about seeing friends die. He talked about the color red, the colors of paint, the colors of the desert, the ocean, the world. He talked about the colors of music, the colors of love.

He talked about his new apartment. How small it seemed, how different. He talked about how he had a piano again--how he hadn’t played it yet, but it was there and how he was almost ready. 

The sky turned to lavender hues and the sunflowers wilted as the hues darkened further and still he talked.

He talked about New York, and jazz music, and Singing in the Rain, and wanting to dance. He talked about school, and work, and turning thirty, and turning thirty-one, and all the birthdays they missed, and all the birthdays they would never celebrate together.

He talked about the children on their street growing up and never having to go to war. He talked about the widows on their street who smiled again, and loved again. He talked about the pain in the world and he talked about the beauty.

It turned so dark he couldn’t see, but he could smell the breeze coming in off the small lake, and he could hear the rustling of the branches and he wasn’t afraid.

The sun set, and still he talked.

And when he stopped, and all was still and quiet and the world seemed to sleep, he cried.

***

_**James** _

**_Brooklyn, NY_ **

**_Summer, 1954_ **

Bucky sat down at the bench in his apartment and opened the fall board. The piano was old and worn, but it had that soft, oiled feeling to it--it still felt warm and alive, like the wood of an instrument should.

He ran his fingers up and down the keyboard slowly, plunking out major scales and arpeggios in time with the ticking metronome that was set on the top lid.

He heard a high pitched squeaking noise, and put his left hand down near the bench. 

“Come here, Steve.”

A tiny wet nose pressed it’s way into Bucky’s palm and he smiled, then looked down at the small calico kitten. 

“Want to hear some Brahms?”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. I always love and appreciate your thoughts and comments!
> 
> Short playlist that inspired chapter titles and the work here:
> 
>  
> 
> [Intermezzo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5JwKDzPlYQs)  
> [Exit Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8051Hipbmmw)  
> [Ghost Towns](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9MUA9hoDa40)  
> [Samson](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p62rfWxs6a8)


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